


Icon

by ItsaVikingThing



Series: Icon [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Humour, Slow Burn, Some angst, Summaries moreso, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-02-10 00:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsaVikingThing/pseuds/ItsaVikingThing
Summary: In Los Angeles, the city of a thousand heroes, Max Caulfield is a nobody. She has no powers, no money, no steady job, and almost no belief left in her only talent: photography. Max is facing the prospect of moving home and abandoning her dreams of being a photographer when she crosses paths with one of the most popular and powerful heroes in the country: Victoria Chase, better known as Paramount.Seizing on the opportunity of a lifetime, Max soon finds herself embroiled in the world of heroes and villains. And she'll discover that Victoria might not wear a mask, but she's still hiding some big secrets...





	1. Chapter 1

Max wakes up when her apartment shudders.

For a moment she lies in bed, listening, wondering what happened. When nothing else does, she closes her eyes again. She isn’t really going to go back to sleep, she tells herself. She’s just going to take a few more minutes before she gets up.

Her phone starts ringing. She's tempted to ignore it, but then she remembers that it could be someone willing to give her a job. Max sits bolt upright and scrabbles around in the wasteland of her bed. She'd been reading about local superheroes and the best places to spot and photograph them on her phone last night. She'd read until she passed out, telling herself it was research.

Max finds her phone wedged between the thin wall of her room and the thinner mattress she sleeps on. Her panic becomes dread when she sees who’s calling. She’s tempted to ignore the call, to burrow back into her sheets and lose herself for a few more hours. But it’s after ten already, and she’s dodged this call too many times.

Max clears her throat and answers. “Dad! Hey, I’m _so_ sorry I haven’t--”

“Did you die?” Ryan Caulfield asks, his tone only mildly sarcastic. “Have you only recently been resurrected?”

“Not funny, dad.” Max flops back on her bed. She has to suppress a cough when the motion disturbs a fine layer of plaster dust. She wonders if there was an earthquake earlier, and studies the ceiling to see if there are any new cracks.

“It’s a crazy world these days. It could happen. But if it didn’t…why haven’t you called back, Max? You know your mom and I worry.”

“I’ve just...been busy.” Max rescues her teddy bear from the suffocating folds of her comforter and gives him a hug. “I’ve been really busy.”

It isn’t a lie. Not really. Max has been busy taking photographs, putting her work out there, applying for jobs, _trying_ to make something happen. But nothing has happened yet. Nothing that pays enough to cover the rent on the crappy apartment Max shares with her friend, Juliet.

“Oh, yeah? You found a job?”

“...nothing steady. Not yet. Chloe thinks she can me some more shifts at the bar, though."

“Max…” He covers the phone for a moment, probably to conceal a sigh. His care in trying to mask his disappointment in her only makes the churning in her stomach and the growing pain in her head worse. “Max, maybe it’s time to come home. For a while, at least. You remember your Uncle Pete? He says Monolith Media are hiring.”

“Dad, I’m a stills photographer.” Max rubs her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Do they need a stills photographer?”

“Be realistic, Max. You’d be starting in data entry. But this could be a foot in the door for you! A chance to earn steadily, make contacts...you could save some money! You could...why don't you move back in with us?” He pauses, but Max is too busy trying to hold herself together to help him out. “Look at this as a chance to build a foundation. And then, a few years down the line, you can go back to freelancing or making art or...or whatever you want!"

Max sucks in a breath. She wants to tell him that it’s only been a few months. That she’s making progress, if not money. That she’s learning valuable skills, that she _is_ getting her name out there, that her break will come sooner or later. Max wants to tell him to believe in her talent, but why would he, when Max doesn’t?

“It...yeah, I guess that makes sense. Maybe…”

“It _definitely_ makes sense.” He doesn’t try to hide the relief in his voice. Maybe he doesn’t even notice it’s there. “I wish I could tell you to keep following your dreams, kiddo, but we can’t really...we can’t support you out there any longer, Max. But, I think, I think this will be a good thing. For all of us! Your mom misses you. Obviously I can’t say that I do, let alone that I miss you _more_ , but I can’t help it if you somehow end up _thinking_ that’s true…”

“I do miss you guys,” she whispers, blotting out tears with the heel of her hand. “I don’t...I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Maxine. No. No, no. You are _not_ a burden. You hear me? Don’t ever think that. It’s just...it’s been months. We don’t have the...it’s time. To come home. For now, at least. Okay? You’re only twenty-two, Max! You’ve got so much ahead of you. Remember, there are no setbacks! There are only…”

He pauses expectantly.

“Switchbacks,” Max whispers. She clears her throat. “Switchbacks on the path you're meant to walk.”

“That’s my girl. It may take longer, but you’ll get where you’re meant to be.”

“I...I’ll think about it, okay? I’ll look up buses and stuff. I, uh, I gotta go now, though. I’ve got to...there’s a birthday party thing I’m gonna shoot today.” For a ten-year-old whose mother took a chance on one of the flyers Max taped to a lamppost last month. “And I’ve got to sort out a portfolio for a magazine, so…”

“Oh, yeah? What magazine?”

Max bites her lip. “... _Unmasked_.”

“The superhero thing? I know it's all gone mainstream, but that's a bit...tabloid, isn’t it?”

Max's lip hurts. She has to force her mouth open. “No. It’s, uh, it's a serious publication.”

It’s a glossy gossip factory sprinkled with the odd interview and highbrow cultural commentator trying to make sense of the hero phenomenon. Max is more likely to be doing coffee runs than using her camera, too, but she isn’t about say that to her dad. Not right now.

"I didn't think you cared about the hero scene. And now you want to work for a hero magazine?"

“It’s just an internship, but they pay for pictures of heroes, too. My friend, Juliet, has sold them a couple of things and she's more of a writer than a photographer. She thinks I could make a living taking pictures of heroes. She..." Max abruptly decides not to mention that Juliet wants to turn her hero gossip blog into a business with Max. "I, uh, it’s something I’ve been thinking about getting into for a while. I think it could really, uh, push me. As a photographer.”

“Huh. Some of them do good things, I guess. But most of them are attention-seeking morons with dumb names. I mean, Warden? Tell me her 'battle armour' is anything other than a marketing executive's fantasy! About the only thing her costume covers is her face!"

"I, uh, I think she designed it herself, actually. She can generate force fields, so she doesn't really _need_ \--"

"We'd be better off if more of them just got a steady job and--" He breaks off, covering the phone again. Max realises that her mom is there, too, listening to the conversation. He uncovers the phone and laughs the way he always does after he's been scolded. “Sorry, honey. I didn't mean to...Max, I hope this pans out. I do. But if it doesn’t…”

“Yeah. I hear you, dad." Max swallows a mouthful of ash and razors. "Thanks for...thanks for looking out for me.”

“No thanks needed. It’s my job! And Max?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. An embarrassing amount, frankly. Let me know about the...magazine thing, and let me know if you need help with the bus ticket.” He barely pauses this time. "If it comes to that!"

“...okay. Love you, dad. Tell mom I love her, too."

"She knows. But I will."

Max hangs up. She tosses her phone aside and hugs Captain to her chest. 

It took her so long to work up the courage to come to LA looking for work. It took her her whole life, all the way through college, to build up belief in her photography, belief that she could cut it as an artist, belief that she could make a living with her skill. It’s taken less than five months to whittle away all of her confidence and expose the truth of who Max is: she’s just another young hopeful among thousands, no better than any of them, likely worse than most. How many of the other people like her are spending half their days lying around past noon, crying and hugging their fucking teddy instead of chasing down every possible opportunity they can?

Max is a failure. She’s pathetic.

From somewhere under her tangled comforter, her phone starts chiming an alarm.

Max groans. She might be a failure, but she’s a failure who needs to show up for a kid’s tenth birthday party. Max can’t ruin that, too. She drags herself out of bed, hurries through breakfast and a shower and packs up her camera gear. She’s on the verge of leaving when she remembers her portfolio. Max hesitates, checks the time, then sighs. It seems pointless to make the effort. She’s tried so many times, with so many other publications, and she doesn’t really want to work for _Unmasked_. But...but if she doesn’t at least send in the application, she knows that it’s the only thing she’ll think about on the bus to Seattle, and every day afterwards.

Max takes ten minutes to tweak her standard cover letter, then uploads it along with the last portfolio she put together to _Unmasked_ ’s site. It’s a half-assed effort, but at least she can say she tried.

On the train to her only paying job of the week, Max reads about Paramount stopping a gang of bank robbers. Apparently what woke her today was a bomb the robbers left in the bank, one Paramount disposed of by detonating it harmlessly in the air.

"That's what heroes do," she mutters to herself. "They save and they protect. That's why people love them."

It doesn't make her feel better about the idea of running around the city trying to take candid shots of heroes. That _does_ feel tabloid. Heroes wear masks for a reason. There are things about them that they don't want people to see. That's true of heroes who have revealed their identities, too. Heroes like Jackhammer and Paramount might live in the public eye, but they still deserve privacy.

Of course, as Juliet has pointed out in her many rants, anyone claiming to act on behalf of the public interest _should_ be exposed to journalistic scrutiny. Particularly when a legislative framework is still being built to encompass the hero phenomenon. There are metric _shitloads_ of money being thrown at the heroes who have captured the public's interest and become media entities. There isn't any real oversight into where the money comes from, where it goes, or what strings are attached to it.

Max knows that Juliet has a point. But she also knows that while Juliet might dream of doing serious investigative journalism, her writing is mostly speculation on popular heroes' love lives. It's impressive how quickly Juliet has managed to build a network of sources, even if they are of dubious reliability at best. It's just a little depressing what she uses them to do.

Max isn’t sure that she wants to do what Juliet does. She isn't sure that working for _Unmasked_ is what she wants, either. She _wants_ to make art. She wants to make a difference.

She isn't sure how to do that.

She isn’t sure about much, beyond two facts: she can’t go home without achieving _something_ and, unless she can land a steady job in the next couple of weeks, Max is going to go home without achieving _anything_.

Max almost misses her stop and actually does get lost trying to find the right house. She ends up being late, but she works her ass off for the rest of the day. When she leaves, the birthday boy hugs her leg and his mother clasps her hand and promises to tell her friends about Max. Even though she's working, hanging out with a bunch of kids ends up being a better party for Max than any she’s been to since she became--by numerical reckoning at least--an adult.

Max tries not to dwell on what that says about her on the train ride home. She just takes comfort in the fact that she has grocery money in one jacket pocket and a large slice of birthday cake in a ziplock bag in the other. It isn't going to be enough to keep her in LA, but at least she feels like less of a failure on the ride home.

* * *

The night is young and seems rich in possibilities to Victoria Chase, until a man with a shotgun decides to hold up the convenience store she's shopping in. It was only meant to be a brief detour to acquire cigarettes and candy, but now it looks like Victoria’s night is about to be derailed. She stops trying to work out how much chocolate she’ll be able to carry in the pockets of her hoodie--while still leaving room for a pack of cigarettes--and watches the idiot attempt his robbery.

He rushes to the counter, clinging onto the shotgun with shaking hands, and stammers, “The re-register! Give it to m-me. I mean, _fuck_! Gimme the money! NOW!”

There’s some irony in the fact that he’s wearing a mask, Victoria supposes. She is, too, in the form of her hoodie and sunglasses. Each of them want their anonymity, and things they’re not supposed to have.

Each of them are going to fuck tonight up for the other.

Victoria _could_ ignore this. The gunman is trying to look at everyone around him, darting quick, nervous glances over both shoulders. He doesn’t seem likely to want to hurt Victoria or any of the other customers in here. He’s so unfocused that his shotgun isn’t even pointing directly at the old man behind the counter. Barring an accident or reckless stupidity, no one is going to die here.

Victoria could ignore this. She could slip away into the night before the police come, and she could go ahead with her clubbing plans.

But she won’t. It only takes one camera, one witness, one person seeing through her disguise and asking why she didn’t act, and then Victoria Chase will come under the wrong kind of scrutiny. The kind of scrutiny that could destroy her reputation, that could destroy _her_.

“Fuck my life,” Victoria mutters.

Victoria checks her reservoirs as she walks quietly up the aisle towards the robber. It’s more of a reflex than a concern: even after the shit at the bank this morning, she has more than enough juice to deal with this idiot. Victoria takes her sunglasses off and tucks them into a pocket. She unzips the hoodie and shrugs it off. She’s wearing a white crop top underneath. It isn’t perfect, but at least the colour is on brand.

The old man behind the counter catches sight of her as she clears the shelves. His eyes widen in surprise. The gunman snatches a handful of notes from the old man’s shaking hand, seems to realise from his expression that something’s wrong, and spins to face Victoria with a yell. He swings the shotgun round, aiming the muzzle at Victoria’s chest, his finger tightening on the trigger…

Victoria lets a little power flow into her from her reservoirs. Everything seems to slow down around her as her body speeds up. She calmly strides forward, crossing the last couple of feet to the unfortunate robber, and seizes the barrel of the gun with one hand. Victoria twists the shotgun so that the muzzle is aimed at the ceiling and the trigger guard is jammed against the robber’s trigger finger. Victoria puts her other hand on the idiot’s shoulder and shoves.

She cuts the flow of power and everything reverts to normal speed. The robber yells in shock, though it changes to pain when Victoria’s shove makes his back hit the grubby linoleum and his trigger finger breaks against the unyielding metal of his weapon. Victoria might get into some trouble for that later, but right now she’s firmly of the opinion: _fuck this guy_.

Victoria leans over and yanks the hockey mask off of his face. “Hi. You know who I am?”

He nods frantically.

“So we’re done, right?”

He nods again. He eases his injured hand away from the shotgun, relinquishing it to Victoria, then rolls onto his belly and puts his hands on his head.

Victoria wrinkles her nose. She doesn't need to heighten her senses to know that he's pissed himself. She barely resists sighing. She safeties the gun and puts it on the counter. She puts on a smile for the shaking old man as she pulls out her phone and powers it up. “Can you handle the call to the police?”

“I...I, of course! Thank you! Thank you so much, I--”

“That’s great!” Victoria says, hoping it doesn’t sound as insincere to him as it does to her. “I’d do it myself, but, you know…”

“Y-yes! I...you’re Paramount!” To her amazement, he laughs, and his shaking subsides. He grins at her, pulling himself upright. “You’ve stopped a crime, so it’s selfie time?”

“Exactly!” Victoria raises her phone, and the old man angles himself into the shot, still grinning happily. Victoria throws up a peace sign, smirks into the lens, dies inside, and takes the shot.

The police arrive ten minutes later, driving the rest of her night irrevocably off the rails. By the time she’s done giving her statement, Victoria’s latest selfie has over a thousand likes on Instagram and her father has texted her to let her know that he’s sent a car and that they are going to Have Words.

“Fuck my life,” Victoria whispers through her best fake smile as she waves and leaves the store, heading for the white Mercedes idling across the street. “I didn’t even get any cigarettes.”

Victoria climbs into the car and finds Courtney in the back seat with an apologetic smile on her face and a tablet in her lap. Courtney whispers, "Sorry."

That's all before she lifts up the tablet, angling the screen towards Victoria. On the screen, Victoria can see her father's face. He's wearing a bow tie and an expression of severe disapproval.

"This nonsense has to stop, Victoria."

"Oh, hey, dad! I'm sorry, did I interrupt your night out?"

"I am at a fundraiser." His mouth tightens. "For _our_ foundation. I am working, Victoria, to secure your future. While you seem intent only on seeking opportunities to hurt your image. It is reckless, and it is not merely self-destructive, it is--"

"I was going to a...to a club. Okay? One night of dancing!" And drinking. And smoking. And eating all the candy she likes whose manufacturers don't sponsor her. And, if at all possible, fucking until she passed out. Not necessarily on a bed. "Dancing. Fun. That's all! I'm twenty-two. I'm _supposed_ to go partying! I think my image can handle--"

"We spend a great deal of money on image consultancy firms. On professionals who built Paramount for us. For _you_. I trust their judgement more than I find myself able to trust yours, Victoria. No more sneaking out. No more visits to places that are not on the approved list. That discussion is over."

Victoria clenches her teeth and looks away.

“Now.” Her father clears his throat. "How are we going to salvage this little mess? Hm? You are a public hero, not some masked cretin! And you are far too important to bother with a convenience store robbery!"

Victoria rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say anything.

"Well?" Her father snaps. "Suggestions, please!"

Victoria snorts. "I was wearing a hoodie because it's Casual Friday?"

" _Victoria_!"

Courtney coughs. "Um, if I may, Mr Chase? What if we said it was part of a new initiative? Ah...part of a new patrol scheme, designed to cast a wider net? No crime is too small? Safety is the highest priority? Um, we're giving back to the city that has welcomed Paramount into--"

"'Safety Is Paramount In Your Community,'" Victoria mutters. "There. We have a _slogan_."

After a brief silence, Victoria's father says, "Good. That should do. Good! Courtney, draft a statement. Victoria, make sure you add this to your prep for your interview tomorrow. Now, if we're going to sell the idea that you're out there patrolling, hadn't you better patrol Victoria? In uniform, at this point, I'd think."

Courtney murmurs, "I brought one of the new jumpsuits. And, uh, I brought the Rolex."

“Which you are supposed to wear _at all times_ ,” her father snaps. “That is how the sponsorship deal _works_. Get it together, Victoria!”

"...Fine,” Victoria mutters. “I'll get changed."

Victoria keeps her gaze averted until Courtney coughs. The tablet has been tucked away and Courtney is offering her a vape.

Victoria closes her eyes. "Fuck my bullshit superhero life."


	2. Chapter 2

Victoria wakes up at 7am without a trace of a hangover and with all of her memories of the night before intact.

Absolutely none of them are worth remembering.

"Shit," she hisses to her bedroom, waking it up.

The blinds roll back, and sunlight pushes away the darkness and some of Victoria's sleepiness. Music starts playing. Victoria’s early morning playlist leans on dance music to help energise her, but today it feels like mockery. She didn’t get to dance last night. She didn’t even get into another encounter which required her to use her powers. Victoria groans. Reflex makes her check her reservoirs: higher than they were last night, at least. Victoria turns her mind outward again. She takes a few seconds to blink her eyes into focus, and a few more once she has to appreciate how completely she hates her bedroom.

Victoria lives in the penthouse of her apartment building, but news helicopters and drones that could belong to _anyone_ mean that she can’t decorate how she’d like. She has an image to maintain, after all. So her room is white on white on white: white walls, white carpet, white or chrome furnishings. Everything is sleek, aggressively modern to the point of dragging the eye to them with how functional and unobtrusive they are.

There is some satisfaction in knowing that any drone or camera getting too close to her building will have its hard drives burned out by her security systems and that anyone hoping to listen in will be baffled by the white noise generators, but it isn’t quite the same as having actual privacy.

Victoria sighs. Her father would point out that ‘privacy’ is another word for ‘obscurity.’

She gets up and makes her bed before she hits the gym. After her workout, she showers, and after that she goes to the living room where breakfast is waiting for her, along with the usual breakfast accompaniment: Courtney and Taylor. Courtney is already fully dressed in black business attire. Taylor is still in her PJs and a pair of Mulan slippers.

“Morning, team,” Victoria says breezily. “And how is everyone today?”

Taylor exchanges a look with Courtney before smiling nervously at Victoria. “So, normally you only talk like that to the press? I guess you had, like, a bad night last night?”

Courtney rolls her eyes. “Thank Christ! You’ve finally figured out sarcasm, Tay!”

Victoria snorts and takes her seat at the table. “Courtney, I’m currently the only person at the table who gets to be a bitch to everyone around them. Clear?”

Courtney holds up her hands.

Taylor passes Victoria a steaming cup of coffee. “So...you had a _really_ shitty night, then?”

“Yes, Taylor! My plans got fucked, I wasted most of the night on a pointless patrol, and I haven’t had a real smoke in months,” Victoria grumbles into her coffee. She doesn’t need to amplify her senses to catch the look Taylor and Courtney share. She certainly doesn’t need telepathy to work out the unspoken words they exchange. Victoria puts down her cup and glares at them. “Yes! _Fine_! It has also been months since I had a fucking orgasm!”

“Victoria.” Courtney sighs. “We live with you. It’s been over a year and it _really_ shows, darling.”

Taylor starts giggling. She makes a half-hearted effort to hide it behind her coffee cup.

Victoria holds onto her glare for another second before she snorts out a laugh of her own. “I hate both of you.”

Taylor springs from her seat, runs around the table and throws her arms around Victoria’s shoulders. “Liar! You love us!”

Victoria sighs. She leans into Taylor and closes her eyes. “Sometimes I think you’re the only people I love,” she whispers.

Even with her eyes closed, she can _feel_ the look that Taylor and Courtney exchange.

Taylor kisses the top of Victoria’s head and moves away. “Eat. I’ll get dressed and then we’ll get you ready for your interview.”

Victoria stifles a groan and opens her eyes. Taylor uncovers a plate of poached eggs with broccoli and passes it to Victoria. She picks up her knife and fork and mechanically begins to eat.

Taylor waits to make sure that Victoria is eating before she bustles off to her room to change. Courtney slides a handwritten sheet of paper over to her. “Your schedule for the rest of the day. The FBI sent over the latest Villain report. I've sent you a precis of all the latest news. The _Times_ ran a piece on the bank robbery, mostly positive. Only a couple of outlets have picked up the convenience store, but when our statement goes live, I expect that to change. Your _Unmasked_ interview at 1 is the only major thing on your schedule, but your, ah, your father requested your presence at a Chase Foundation event at the Getty Center at 5.”

“What?” Victoria stops nodding absently at the by now familiar morning litany and glares at Courtney. "Why the fuck does he want me there?”

Courtney hesitates. “I...believe he said that, as the you are the face of the Foundation, you should take a more active role in--”

“You mean, he figures that with the convention on and criminal activity down, he wants me somewhere public. Somewhere I can’t...misbehave. Just in case I have some actual fucking time off for once."

Courtney winces, but she doesn’t deny it.

“I can’t believe this shit.” Victoria aggressively stabs her fork into a piece of broccoli. A little _too_ aggressively. Her fork impales the vegetable, splits the plate beneath in half, and embeds itself in the surface of the table. Victoria blinks. She takes a second to calm herself, then pulls the fork out of the table. She cuts off the trickle of power from her reservoirs that her anger triggered, puts the fork down beside the broken plate, and folds her hands in her lap.

It isn’t the first time she’s slipped up, lost control of the power flow like that. But it’s the first time in years that it’s happened outside of training.

“I’ll deal with that,” Courtney says softly. “And I’ll get the kitchen to send--”

“Don’t bother. Not hungry.” Victoria stands up. She picks up her coffee cup and heads for her office. She hesitates at the door, not looking back. “I’ll...catch up with the news and my email. Then we can do interview prep. But unless there’s an emergency, can you give me an hour?”

“Of course, Victoria.”

Victoria uses her free hand to disengage the biometric lock and goes into her office. She closes the door on the sounds of one of her only friends cleaning up yet another of her messes.

* * *

Max is sorting through her wardrobe, working out what she's going to give away. It doesn't make sense to try to pack everything she has: it's not much, but still too much to easily lug around when she goes back north. Max's phone rings while she's contemplating the underwear she bought--at a friend's insistence and to Max's considerable embarrassment--in anticipation of dates that Max never went on. She doesn't recognise the number, but that stopped being exciting months and dozens of telemarketing cold calls ago. Max answers, suppressing a sigh, and tosses the lace bra and panties onto the give away pile. "Hello?"

"Maxine Caulfield!" A cheerful young man's voice. "I'm Warren, calling from _Unmasked_!"

"Uh..." Max snatches up her laptop and sits on her bed, sinking into the heap of clothes she was going to abandon. "Yeah, hi! This is Max! Is this about the internship?"

"Oh! Yeah, no. No, you were never getting that. There's a niece of one of the senior editors who already has the position. It was pretty much advertised to satisfy legal requirements. You know the drill, nepotism is okay as long as it doesn't _look_ like nepotism. That sort of thing."

"There was no job?" Max whispers numbly. She flops back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling.

"Nope! I mean, did you think you had a chance, with _that_ resumé?” He begins to chuckle, then turns it into a cough. “Ah, but I'm calling because there _is_ a job we could use you on. Right now in fact."

"I...don't understand?" Max rubs her forehead, hoping to ward off the tears she can feel pricking at her eyes. "There _is_ a job? Is this an interview?"

"Not so much! Max...you know what, put me on speaker and start loading up your gear, because there's going to be a car outside your apartment complex in eleven minutes. Have you showered? You should shower."

"What are you...it’s almost noon! Why would you think I hadn’t showered?"

“Metadata. Based on your internet browsing habits and what we’ve been able to piece together from your movements on security camera footage. Oh, and the PI we’ve had following you! We have a pretty clear picture of your weekly routines, so let’s see...yeah. There’s only a 63% chance that you’d have showered by this time on a weekday. But today’s Saturday aaaand...whoah, it drops to a 42% chance?”

Max holds the phone away from her ear, in case he can feel her blush through the handset. “How…I’m not...it’s not _every_ Saturday I don’t--”

Warren hums thoughtfully. “It’s more than half of them, though. You’d better hurry, Max!”

“Why do you _know_ that?” Max clears her throat. “Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to know that. Is it legal that you know that?”

“You applied for a position with us. We cover the superhero beat. You’ve been...vetted, Max. _Intensely_ vetted. The good news is, you’ve got all your shots and you’re good to go!”

“Wha...my shots?”

“Ah, sorry! Just a little joke! Never mind. From the sounds of things, you’ve stopped moving. You should get back to packing your bag. You’ve got less than seven minutes left.”

Max takes a deep breath. "Warren, right?"

"That's right!"

"Could you explain what's going on and why this isn't a kidnapping scheme? Or something equally sinister?"

"Why it...? Whoah, no, no, no! Okay, so... _Unmasked_ keeps files on applicants. Anyone promising, at least. You know, in case a position does come up, or if we need someone to fill in at the last minute. This is one of those cases. We have an interview scheduled for today, but our photographer had a family emergency. All of our usual alternates are tied up today, what with the convention. And we need someone who has been recently vetted, because this is a high security gig. You happen to be near the interview site, you have a portfolio that tells us that you’re raw but that you know your way around a camera, and you’ve recently been subjected to, aha, I mean _cleared by_ our security checks, so...there we go! Six minutes, Max."

Max snorts, but she wedges her phone between her ear and her shoulder and starts loading gear into her bag. "What about--"

"I can't tell you who you'll be shooting or where you'll be going. Security again. But you'll be working with Gray Rodriguez. They'll brief you in the car. You'll recognise them, right?"

"Wowser..." Gray Rodriguez is a celebrity in their own right and _Unmasked's_ top interviewer. And the convention Warren mentioned must be the LA Hero Con, a massive event visited by a lot of heroes--even some of the big names attend. Which means, if Rodriguez is skipping it for this interview...this is something big. Max speeds up, frantically cramming everything she can think of into her bag. "I mean, uh...yeah. Uh-huh. I will."

"Good! You're in?"

“Um…” Max hesitates, but her hands don’t. They continue to load her bag, even getting bold enough to put her beat up old Polaroid in the pouch next to her less beat up, newish SLR. Max thinks about the bus ride to Seattle and nods to herself. “Yeah. Yes, I’m in! I mean, this has been _very_ creepy, but I appreciate your help, I guess. Thanks, Warren."

"No problem! I'll be depositing $1,200 in your account, then."

Max freezes. That’s almost as much as she’s made in the last two months. "You will? Uh, I mean...yes, that sounds, uh, acceptable?"

"Damn, Max! You're a tough negotiator!"

"I...am?"

"$1,500 it is!"

"It _is_?"

Warren laughs. It’s a disarmingly warm and good-natured sound. "Look, Max...usually in these situations there's some room for negotiation. The first offer is almost always a lowball, okay? Now, I've gone to the maximum allowance for a first timer like you, but before you go thinking you got a good deal, I have to be honest. We're paying for every image you take, and _Unmasked_ will use them as they see fit. They may not ever see print. If they do, you may not get credit."

Max chews her lip. "I won't get credit for my work?"

“We have your verbal agreement and the money's in your account, so it's our work now, Max. You might get credit. You might not. That’s up to editorial and is way above my my pay grade. I’m just letting you know what you’re getting into.”

"Um...I don't know if you had to be _that_ honest with me.” Max fastens the last zip on her bag. “Won't you get in trouble?"

"Nope! Because we both know that you aren't going to back out of this. Do a good job here, and you could make a name for yourself in the _Unmasked_ offices. Next time a real position opens up, that could lead to you being offered it. And aside from that...there is one last reason that makes me think you'll do it."

"Oh, yeah? Is that another metadata thing?"

"Heh, more of an instinct. You’re curious, Max. You’re smart enough to know that we're interviewing someone major. And you want to see exactly who it is. Two minutes left, Max."

"Okay, okay! I'm going!" Max runs for the door. "Oh, and for the record, I _had_ showered already."

"Good for you! I had faith in your basic hygiene all along. Good luck out there, Max!"

He hangs up before she can thank him. Max stuffs her phone in the pocket of her jeans and runs down the stairs, buoyed by the stream of butterflies taking flight in her body.

The black town car that picks Max up is mildly intimidating. Gray Rodriguez is much more so: from their herringbone tweed suit, open-collar silk shirt, their unpretentious but expensive watch and what Max presumes is the Dior scent they advertise, getting into the back of the car feels like stepping out of the world and into an aspirational commercial.

Rodriguez is taking a phone call. They look up when Max gets into the car. After a brief inspection that takes in Max's ensemble of worn hoodie and jeans, her battered gear bag, and her panicked attempt at a smile, they look away. They return their focus to a conversation conducted in Spanish too rapid for Max's weak grasp of the language to allow her to pluck more than the occasional word from the flow.

It’s still clear to Max that they’re pretty mad at whoever is on the other end of the line. It isn’t much of a logical leap to work out _why_ they’re mad, either. But, since it would be paranoid to assume that Gray Rodriguez is already discussing getting her fired, Max tries to ignore her brain until it starts being a team player again. She offers what she hopes is a more convincing smile to the other person in the back of the car, a man in a stylish vest, jacket and cravat combo whose haircut reminds Max of a parrot’s plumage.

He raises an eyebrow at Max. His face otherwise remains entirely impassive.

Max looks away.

For the next ten minutes, Max clutches her bag to her chest and tries to work out if she’d rather understand Spanish better or worse. At last, Gray hangs up. After a brief exchange with their assistant--still in Spanish--they focus their attention on Max.

“Ms Caulfield, yes?” Their voice is smooth and mellifluous and, best of all, no longer angry.

“Uh, y-yeah. I, uh, you can call me Max. It, uh, it’s great to meet you!”

“Yes.” They toss their phone from one hand to the other, never taking their eyes off of Max. “Ms Caulfield...please, relax. While the circumstances aren’t ideal, we’re all on the same team here. There are only two things you need to do for me.”

They pause expectantly.

“Uh...sure. What things?”

“Say absolutely nothing once we reach our destination. And do your best to provide us with at least a couple of usable images.”

Max’s face gets hot. “I...would I be here if I couldn’t use a camera?”

The assistant snorts. “Jesus. I think you hurt her feelings.” He holds up his hands, palms pressed together. “Pretty please don’t fuck this up for us! Is that better?”

"Dan!" Gray sighs. "Ms Caulfield...Max. I don’t wish to be rude, but I do need to be clear. This is the fourth time I’ve attempted to sit down with Victoria Chase since she made her identity public. Her people are very particular. It’s something of a miracle that we’re doing this at all, let alone in Ms Chase’s penthouse.”

“I’m going to shoot _Paramount_?” In her _home_?” Max blurts. She regrets it even before Gray’s jaw flexes, biting back their irritation. “Sorry, I just…she’s such a...sorry.”

“Max…” Gray looks down, seeming surprised to find their phone still in their hand. They slip it into their jacket pocket. “The truth is, I don’t know when or _if_ I’ll get a fifth opportunity for a frank one-on-one interview. I need today to go smoothly, and losing my photographer is a bad start. So. Since I don’t know you and since you are, ah…”

“Obviously a complete fucking amateur,” Dan supplies helpfully, “with no fucking clue how to behave.”

Gray winces. “That’s not exactly how I would have put it. Max, I need you to follow any and all instructions you are given, by me, by Dan, or by Ms Chase’s people. I need you to say nothing, because that will be safest for you and for the interview. And I need you to get some shots that Ms Chase’s people will clear and that my editor will print. Do you think you can do that?”

Max swallows. “I won’t let you down.”

Gray studies her. They nod once. “Good. I'm sure you won't."

“She’d better fucking not,” Dan mutters, quietly enough for Gray to ignore and loud enough for Max to hear.

Max can’t think of anything to say, so she says nothing. She just tries to wrap her mind around the fact that she’s about to shoot one of the most famous heroes in the country. It’s utterly terrifying, not least because some of the most famous images of Paramount were taken by the hero herself.

It’s also seriously fucking exciting. This is the biggest test Max’s skills have ever faced. If she can pull this off…

She’s jolted from her thoughts when the car comes to a stop.

Max peers out the window while the others get out of the car. Paramount apparently lives at the top of a very tall, very fancy building. The sort with a doorman out front.

A brunette woman in aggressively chic business attire waits for them on the kerb, a politely insincere smile on her face.

“I can do this,” Max whispers to herself while the other get out of the car. She swirls some spit around her mouth. “Oh, dog! I hope I can do this…”

Max gets out of the car, clutching her bag and trying on another smile.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! New chapter in two weeks!


	3. Chapter 3

The elevator ride to the penthouse is a long one. The elevator itself is smooth and swift and near silent, but time seems to dilate inside it. Gray wears a half-smile and a sense of calm that Max appreciates, even if she's pretty sure it's fake. 

But as bad as she thought Dan was in the car, Max finds the glare he's silently directing at the side of her head right now that little bit worse. And that's _nothing_ compared to Paramount's assistant, Courtney, who took one look at Max, arched an eyebrow at Gray, and asked, " _That's_ your photographer?"

Never has Max encountered so many layers of disdain compressed into a single word. Gray's defence of her had been tepid. Max hadn't missed the worried look they'd exchanged with Dan as soon as Courtney turned her back, either.

So now here Max is, going to shoot Paramount, and instead of giddy anticipation she can feel a compound of dread and shame for a task everyone seems to have decided she's going to fuck up before she's even attempted it. That's a feeling that Max is used to, but it's a feeling that normally builds from within. Having everyone around her project it onto her feels different. It feels horrible. It feels...deeply fucking insulting. 

Max might have her doubts still, but she graduated from a renowned photography program with a good grade. She has talent. She has skills. And the idea that her big shot might end the second Paramount sees her, the idea that Gray's interview might get taken away and that Max would get the blame, it fills Max with an unexpected feeling, one that is pushing away her fear and her guilt: anger.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Max takes a deep breath, adjusts her gear bag on her shoulders, and takes a firm grip of the anger boiling in her core. She tells herself that all she needs to do is keep her head down and not fuck up for the next few minutes.

Then she sees Paramount standing in silhouette at the window. She's wearing immaculately tailored white pants and a sleeveless white jersey vest. Her pixie cut is perfectly coiffed, her posture is perfect even in repose, and her arms are sleekly muscled and perfectly toned. She's wearing white leather flats and she's still _so_ tall. Max has always been struck by how insanely photogenic Paramount is, but her actual physical presence is such that even with her back to the room she draws all eyes to her. At least, Max assumes she does. She's too busy staring to check where everybody else is looking.

The moment Max realises that she might be staring too much, she feels her face heat up and decides that she should definitely look away. But then the sun emerges from behind a cloud and Paramount is rendered into a breathtaking abstract sculpture and Max forgets everything for a second, even how to walk, even how to breathe.

* * *

There aren't many things Victoria likes about her apartment, but she loves the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lounge for the view of the city they offer.

That's why, in breach of the established interview protocol, Victoria isn't sitting in one of the chairs arranged behind her. She's standing at the window, close enough that her breath fogs the glass. There's something oddly comforting in having tangible evidence of her functioning respiratory system outside her own awareness of her existence.

"This is why I need to get out of this fucking place," Victoria mutters. "It's bad for my head."

It's another unproductive thought. Where could Victoria go that she could escape Paramount? And what the fuck would she even be _without_ Paramount? 

Nothing. No one.

Victoria wipes her breath from the glass and finds an angle where she can consider herself. She tries on a smile. It doesn't fit as well as the clothes Taylor picked out for her, but it looks convincing enough. Taylor's makeup and wardrobe choices are going to do a lot of the work anyway. Courtney's prep should take care of most of the rest, as long as Victoria's mouth doesn't fuck up everyone else's efforts.

Her watch emits a soft chime. The elevator has reached the penthouse. Victoria decides not to sit down. She chooses to breathe and watch the city, hunting for a sense of peace. She's getting closer to it than she's been for days when the door behind her opens. Victoria automatically checks her reservoirs--the levels are high--but keeps herself from drawing on them. She doesn't know if Gray Rodriguez likes to shake hands, but they probably don't like to have the bones in their hands turned into splinters if they do.

Victoria turns, putting on a smile. She freezes when she sees a scruffy, scrawny girl with a camera round her neck and a gear bag on her shoulder stumbling into the room. Victoria has no idea who she is and every desire to find out why _Unmasked_ is fucking her over by sending anything less than their best photographer.

"Ms Chase," Gray Rodriguez smiles as they walk towards Victoria, making an annoyingly good job of putting their body between Victoria and the offensive presence intruding into Victoria's lounge. "Thank you so much for taking the time to meet me today. And for welcoming me into your home."

"My pleasure." Victoria double checks to make sure she isn't subconsciously tapping her strength reservoir before taking Gray's offered hand. She flicks a glance at the girl, who is fumbling a tripod out of the slings on her bag. "Is this...everyone?"

"Yes." Gray nods. They put on a slightly strained smile. "Unfortunately an emergency led to Hal Asher's cancellation. Luckily, we have a rising star in Ms Caulfield here, who agreed to fill in today."

"Oh, just call me Max!" The girl freezes, her face abruptly turning scarlet. She quickly bends over her tripod again. "Ah, I'll shut up."

Victoria looks at Courtney, who lifts and lowers her left shoulder a fraction of an inch. Gray opens their mouth, but Victoria steps around them, striding towards the girl. She can't quite decide what's worse: her hair, her posture, her clothes or everything about her. 

"So...Max." The girl jumps, snapping her head up. Her eyes are a deep, deep blue though her pupils are so wide it's hard to tell. Victoria makes her voice as insincerely kind as she can. "You're a photographer?"

It takes effort not to roll her eyes when everybody in the room tenses up, Scruffy included. But where Gray is obviously worried that Victoria might spike their interview, and Courtney is worried that Victoria might breach protocol again, Max's tension shifts into something else. Her jaw tightens and her eyes narrow as she stares up at Victoria. "Yeah. I am. Here."

And suddenly Max is thrusting her camera into Victoria's hands. Victoria accepts it, bemused, and powers it up. She accesses the memory card and starts flipping through the images it contains. She pauses, and raises an eyebrow at Scrawny. "A child's birthday party was your last job?"

"Uh, yeah." Tragic Hair Day is trembling, her hands twitching nervously at her sides, and her throat works at a painful volume when she swallows. But she holds Victoria's gaze and says, "I figure this should be easier. I only have one subject to frame today. I already know the camera loves you from almost any angle. And..." Her throat works again. "You're not a child. So, it's not like you'll throw a tantrum because I need to point a camera at you. Right?"

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Victoria sees Courtney's mouth open out of the corner of her eye. She _hears_ Gray's lips part, Gray's assistant exhaling a shaky 'shit.'

"Hmm." For a moment, Victoria isn't sure if she's impressed or furious at So Many Freckles. She flips through more images on the camera, moving more slowly, studying them as best she can at their reduced size. Slowly, Victoria realises that she is both furious _and_ impressed. Max has talent. Max has talent, and some degree of spine, and it pisses Victoria off. It makes Victoria smile her first real smile of the day. "You can shoot me."

She hands the camera back. Max almost drops it, but she manages to recover her fumble and sling the camera around her neck again. She nods at Victoria, then busies herself with her tripod and gear. Victoria is about to let her fade into the background again, when Max speaks.

"Uh, before you...could I get a shot of you at the window? You looked...I think it could be a great image for the interview."

Victoria looks at Gray, who smiles--almost convincingly--and spreads their hands. She looks at Max. "Why?"

"Because..." Max sucks in a breath. "You looked...unknowable, in silhouette. Powerful and beautiful, but, uh--"

"Unknowable." Victoria feels her stomach twist unpleasantly. "Everyone knows who I am."

"Do they?" Max quickly shakes her head. "I mean, isn't the point of interviews like this so that people can see the person inside the powers? Taking off your mask doesn't mean we know who _you_ are. Isn't there a, uh, kinda dichotomy there they, uh, we're here to explore? 

And now Victoria isn't sure what to think or what to say. It's not exactly the most original thought in the world, but it's so close to what Victoria's been thinking about, and for it to come from _this_ girl? 

Gray's assistant mutters, "Are you doing the interview, now, Max?"

"She's doing her job," Gray says calmly. "Focus on yours, Dan. Ms Chase? What do you say? We aren't here to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

The suggestion that she's anything other than comfortable makes Victoria distinctly uncomfortable. Or perhaps it's just the whiplash of discovering in the space of a minute that the visibly pathetic Max Caulfield isn't so pathetic after all: she's effectively taken control of the entire interview. Clearly, given how badly she's still shaking, she didn't even _mean to_ , but she did. The only way to take control back immediately would be for Victoria to shut the whole thing down, but she'll look petty, and that's not a look she can afford. Besides, it'd be more ammunition for her father to use against her later.

She turns her back on Max and stalks to the window. She keeps her back to everyone and stares out into the city, not bothering to try to recapture her earlier mood. Max can consider herself lucky she's getting this much to work with. Victoria breathes and listens to the sounds of Courtney getting Gray and Dan set up. She taps a reservoir and amps her hearing, listening intently as Max finishes her own setup. Victoria listens to Max whispering almost soundlessly to herself, some kind of unconscious tick or mantra as she finishes her preparations. Max gasps, a sound below the range of normal hearing, and whispers one more word--'perfect.' After that comes the clicking of Max's shutter. Or rather, _shutters_. Max takes one shot with some analogue monster before she switches to the digital camera, her breathing and her heart slowing as she works. Victoria listens, her eyes half-closed, as Max takes a series of shots. It's soothing, hearing Max lose herself in her work. 

Victoria's lips quirk suddenly, and she slips her phone out of her pocket. Victoria lines up an angle that shows her face in the foreground and Max bent over her tripod in the background. She cuts the flow of power from her reservoir, quickly takes a few shots, then turns away from the window, smirking. "I think that's enough, don't you?"

Max meets her eyes. There's an air of confidence that had been entirely lacking a couple of minutes ago. She reaches for a scarred yellow brick of a thing. In a soft but commanding voice she says, "Hold there, please."

Taken aback, Victoria does. Max quickly raises the ugliest camera Victoria's ever seen to her eye, lines up a shot in a fraction of a second, and takes it. Victoria doesn't even have to think to briefly tap a reservoir, shielding her eyes from the flash. She watches in disbelief as the camera ejects a square of cardboard-backed film, because who the fuck uses instant cameras on a job like this? Or ever?

"Thanks," Max says softly. She ducks her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You'll be in the chair on the right? I'll get set up over there out of your eye line. I'll try not to bother you again."

"It's...no bother," Victoria answers automatically. She's surprised to find she means it. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with."

"Oh, I just need to point a camera at you to get a good shot," Max mutters, blushing.

"Learn to take a compliment, Max." Victoria snorts, wondering just how finite Max's supply of confidence is. It appears to have evaporated now she's no longer behind a lense. "And bear in mind, everyone here expects you to do more than _just_ point a camera."

"O-of course," Max mumbles, her face turning scarlet. She quickly hunches over her tripod again.

Victoria ignores her, feeling satisfied that she's put Max back in her place. She ignores the look Courtney's giving her, too, focusing her attention on Gray. Lowering herself into the seat opposite them, Victoria puts on a smile she almost means. "Now. What did you want to ask me?"

* * *

Max considers it possible proof of the existence of the divine that she goes largely ignored after that. She catches Dan glaring at her and Courtney giving her a more speculative--though not much more friendly--look, but soon everyone is focused on Gray and Paramount.

It gives Max some badly needed mental space after the last ten very stressful minutes. Max is pretty sure she almost fucked up everything for everyone because she couldn't keep her mouth shut. But she couldn't keep silent and hope for the best, not when the chance to shoot Paramount was about to slip through her fingers. Not when a single look at her had been enough to wake Max's every artistic instinct, to set her mind screaming with the _need_ to create images.

Being ignored is good, but not good enough, because there are still a lot of things whirling through Max's head. While a desire to produce good shots is one of them, it's soothing to work. Later, she'll fret about missed opportunities, poor angles, failing to use the lighting effectively and a thousand other things, but in the moment, when her world is what she frames through a viewfinder, Max usually finds the calm that eludes her at her every other point of her life. It's part of why she wants to succeed as a photographer, so she can keep feeling the stillness between moments.

Max's mind gradually slows down. Her heart rate drops to something healthier. She takes shot after shot of Paramount, eventually feeling steady enough to ditch the tripod and hunt for different angles. She tries to stay out of Gray and Paramount's way, but she's probably more conscious of her actions than they are. They've both had more experience working with photographers than Max has had being one.

Which makes it strange to realise that Paramount is...not quite tense, but not fully relaxed. Maybe she hates interviews, but for someone as famous and famously approachable as she is, Paramount seems a little...stiff. It's hard to spot, and Max might have missed it if she wasn't studying her so intensely, but Max grows more and more convinced that Paramount's famous, easy smile is the product of hard work rather than genuine emotion.

Max shuffles to the side, but she's concentrating so much on Paramount that she loses her balance, almost falling. A hand grips the back of her hoodie, stabilising her. Max looks up to see Courtney supporting her weight with apparently little effort, her attention divided between the interview and the tablet she holds in her other hand. "Up" she breathes, not deigning to look at Max.

Max steadies herself, mouthing a 'thank you' anyway. She looks over at the interview, dismayed to find Paramount looking at her. Max's face gets so hot she could probably use it as a light source. She ducks her head and scrambles behind her tripod, whispering apologies and cursing her stupidity. She tries to think invisible thoughts while she attaches her camera again, any sense of calm and detachment scrubbed away by her clumsiness.

She hears Gray clearing their throat, glancing up to find Paramount looking away. Max barely stifles a groan. She's made a fool of herself _and_ she's interrupted the interview. "I'm so fucking this up. I'm so not ready for this!" Max hisses.

"It's fine," Paramount says, her voice raised higher than it was moments ago. "Everything's fine. Please, continue."

Max blinks. She risks another look at Paramount, but she's ignoring Max again.

Gray clears their throat. "As I was saying, you've become one of the leading proponents of the new federal registration scheme. You're the face of the campaign, in fact."

Paramount raises an eyebrow. "Not to be rude, but that isn't a question."

Max tries to suppress a snort. She thinks she sees the corner of Paramount's mouth twitch up and quickly snaps a shot. It's one of the few flashes of genuine humour Max thinks she's seen on the hero's face.

"True! Let me try again: you wore a mask and were something of a vigilante yourself when you first emerged on the hero scene. Do you think you'd still be where you are now if you'd come up under the new registration act?"

"Oh, please!" Paramount's eyes lose all trace of humour. She smiles, but Max isn't buying it anymore. "My early heroics were disastrous. Things could have gone very wrong for me, and for others--"

"Mm. The arrest of the drug dealer..." Gray glances at Dan, who whispers into a lapel mic. Gray presses a finger to their ear, nodding. "Frank Bowers. The police report is...sketchy. How messy was it?"

"I was a teenager and new to my powers," Paramount says smoothly. "It would have been a lot less messy if I'd gone to the police with my suspicions rather than trying to play hero. My life back then would have been a lot less messy if I'd had the support of institutions that could have helped me understand my powers and train to use them."

"You're certainly not playing anymore. You took down Devastator this year, an empowered criminal who had eluded justice for years."

"Luck and teamwork. I wasn't alone." Paramount smiles, her shoulders easing down a barely perceptible fraction of an inch. "Warden--who is registered, but wears a mask--and--"

"Most empowered individuals discover their powers young and reach full development in their early twenties. Experience and training count for a great deal of course, but it seems your powers arrived late and are still developing beyond what experience and training typically allow. According to your official testing two years ago, you wouldn't have been able to tackle a villain like Devastator, but you did. And new facets to your abilities--"

Max jumps when Courtney speaks. "Power test results are confidential. For obvious reasons. If organisations or individuals wishing to do harm to a hero had access to--"

Gray waves a hand. "These things always leak. You know that. I found the results in question online! There are no cloaks or daggers here. The files are so heavily redacted, you don't need to worry."

"It's alright, Courtney," Paramount says calmly. "Gray is asking fair questions. You're right, I wore a mask at first, and I chose to take it off. I was relatively young and uncertain about pursuing the hero life. I took the mask off because...it seemed like the best way to pursue my path. The registration act isn't about denying heroes a secret identity, it's about trying to do what's right by the greatest number of people. When a criminal group acts, when a villain acts, there have been times when vigilante heroes and innocent civilians have been caught in the crossfire between law enforcement and the real criminals. That's why we need registration and greater transparency. That's why I support the scheme. It isn't designed to criminalise powers, but to make it easier to identify who's who in life or death scenarios. And, when young people come forward with newly discovered powers, there are resources available to them that can give them guidance and certainty."

Gray gestures at the beautifully furnished lounge and the view of the city below. "You seem to have managed quite well."

"I've been very fortunate. I've...had the guidance of my parents, my father in particular."

"Mm. I'm hoping to have a conversation with him about all the work the Chase Foundation does. You're...not directly involved in the charity, are you?"

"No, my father sees to the daily running of the foundation."

"It seems like you have very little oversight into an organisation that derives a great deal of money from its association with you."

Paramount smiles sweetly, making Max fairly sure she doesn't mean it. "I trust the expertise of the staff of the Chase Foundation. My life-saving skills lie in another direction."

Technically, if Max has a side in all of this, it's supposed to be Gray's. But she can't help another snort, which she turns into an unconvincing cough. Gray is pushing, and that's their job, and Paramount is being evasive, and Max doesn't know her reasons, but..she kinda likes the way Paramount is shutting Gray down. Max is not much closer to understanding who Paramount is than she was before she took _Unmasked's_ call, but the few moments she's glimpsed of the woman behind the PR mask, Max has liked what she's seen.

"You talked about transparency," Gray says, their tone showing no hint of frustration. "But you didn't answer my question about your powers."

"You didn't ask any questions about my powers. I've been listening quite carefully." Paramount's smile is more of a smirk, and Max is pretty sure that this expression is quite sincere. Her smile fades. "But the truth is, up until now the vast majority of empowered individuals haven't undergone testing. There are a lot of things we don't know. There are a lot of things _I_ don't know. But I'm trying to be responsible about how I go looking for answers."

A soft tone chimes. Courtney steps forward, smiling widely and with enough insincerity that even Max can spot it. "That's all the time Paramount has today. But I'd be delighted to brief you on our new community patrol programme!"

Max takes advantage of the distraction Paramount's departure causes to approach Courtney. "Hey, um, thanks for the save earlier."

Courtney glances at her. "Yes! Bye, now!"

"Wait! Uh, I'm freelancing on this and I'm supposed to turn over my shots to the magazine, but I don't think they'll want these and maybe Paramount will?" Max slips the two Polaroids she took earlier from her bag and onto the surface of Courtney's tablet. "I just...wouldn't feel right turning these over to anyone else, is all."

Courtney purses her lips, but she sweeps the photos from her tablet and tucks them into her jacket pocket. "Alright! Bye, now!"

By that point, Paramount is gone and Gray and Dan are getting ready to leave. Max grabs her gear and follows them out.

* * *

Victoria sighs as she stares at herself in her vanity's mirror. Taylor fusses over her, removing her makeup and her interview jewellery.

"How did it go?"

Victoria grunts.

"You can use your words, Vic," Taylor says cheerfully. "I know you can, because you were just using them! Unless you grunted through the whole interview."

"It was fine." Victoria rolls her eyes. "Nothing unexpected." Gray's questions got close to a few uncomfortable points, but Victoria has had years to stuff the skeletons in her closet all the way to the back. "Except...the photographer."

"There! All done!" Taylor steps back. "What about the photographer?"

"She...was an amateur." Her bedroom door opens and Courtney briskly walks in. Victoria sighs. "I just hope she didn't waste my time. Courtney, has something come up that gets me out of spending an evening with my father? Fire? Flood? Kitten in a tree?"

"What about puppies?" Taylor asks, leaning her hip against the vanity table. "Why is it always kittens getting saved?"

Courtney massages her temples. "Puppies don't climb trees, Tay. I'm sure if they did, Vic would rescue them."

Victoria snorts. "Kittens first. Puppies if there's time."

"Vic!" Taylor gasps and swats Victoria's shoulder. Instinct sees Victoria tap a reservoir, hardening her skin. Taylor winces and massages her wrist. "You're a hard woman."

"Please, no puns." Victoria touches Taylor's knee. "Your hand okay?"

"Fine! My heart, on the other hand, is broken over your puppy hatred."

"I don't _hate_ puppies, I choose to prioritise them differently in a crisis situation than--"

"The answer is no." Courtney clears her throat. "No emergencies. You've got an hour, though. Something might come up. But, speaking of puppies, or rather people who look like kicked puppies, the photographer wanted you to have these. No strings attached. Oh, and I've done a chemical sweep. They're safe."

Courtney dips into her jacket pocket and produces two squares of cardboard which she passes to Victoria. Victoria flips them over: two photographs, taken by Max with her instant camera. Victoria lays them side by side on the surface of the vanity, lining them up neatly with one finger. She stares at the images of her standing at the window, one with her back to the camera, one facing it.

"Oh, hey!" Taylor leans over Victoria's shoulder. "They're, like, _really_ good."

They really fucking are. Victoria sees Paramount in the first shot: her back straight, projecting power and dignity, only part of her profile visible, her expression poised. The way the light falls across her...Max's version of Paramount is someone Victoria thinks she'd like to be. 

The other picture, though, is the one Victoria keeps staring at. In this one, there's a trace of a smirk on her lips. Her eyes are wide, a little unsure, but not unhappy. She isn't elegant or confident. She's been caught in a single instant between posing for the camera and posing for the interviewer, her expression softer than the one she usually sees in the mirror or in any of the thousands of images of herself out there in the world. It occurs to Victoria that, for the first time in longer than she can remember, she's looking at Victoria Chase without even a hint of Paramount showing.

Courtney leans over her other shoulder. "They're okay, I guess."

Victoria snorts. "Gray may have been bullshitting, but they weren't wrong. Max could become a star." She frowns at herself in her mirror. "Courtney..."

She steps back, her expression alert. "Yes, Vic?"

Victoria looks at the pictures again, then nods. "I need you to talk to my lawyers. I need them to draw up a work contract and an NDA. A contract that names me as employer, not my father or the foundation."

Courtney's jaw drops. "Excuse me? Taylor and I are the only people who work directly--"

"Yes, and now we're adding someone new to the team." Victoria smirks at her friends. "My father has been telling me that selfies limit my audience reach and that I should get a staff photographer. So. I will. I want Max Caulfield. Make it happen, Court."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! So far, we've mostly been setting the scene. Now the real fun begins! I'm looking forward to diving deeper into this AU with you all.
> 
> Go do the comment thing! See you in a fortnight! :)


	4. Chapter 4

The elevator ride down feels different to Max. There's still tension in the silence she shares with Gray and Dan, but this time it's the contained excitement of having done the job they set out to do. Or rather, having begun it. Max knows that Gray and Dan will be already thinking about the next stages: comparing notes, going over the recordings and photos, and working up ideas of how best to present the interview for publication.

It's a process that can't start while there are outsiders around, so they say nothing while Courtney escorts them to the lobby. Gray makes all the right, pleasant sounds as they say goodbye to Courtney. Max keeps her head down and her mouth shut this time. She's content to wait beside Dan, in the bubble of time that makes her part of a creative team with work ahead of them, wondering how her shots will turn out.

The adrenaline buzz Max was vicariously enjoying fades away at that thought, leaving her suddenly tired. When they're outside Paramount's building, before they get to the car, Max decides to burst her own bubble. "Gray?"

They turn to her with a smile. "Max. Good job in there. We'll drop you off now and--"

"It's okay!" Max shakes her head. "You probably want to get started right away and I'd just intrude. Here." She takes the memory card from her camera and offers it to Gray. "It was nice to meet you. Thanks for giving me a chance."

"Max..." Gray glances at Dan, who opens the car door and climbs inside. They take the memory card and slip it into their jacket pocket. "I mean it. You did a good job today. I hope we'll get a chance to work together again."

"Oh! Uh...thank you!" Max grins sheepishly. "But maybe wait until you've seen the pictures?"

"Fair point." Gray laughs. "Are you sure you'll be alright getting home from here?"

"Yeah. I'll order a cab. Spend some of that paycheck."

Gray nods again, but Max can tell that their focus is already turning back to the job. They shake hands and Gray makes all the right, pleasant sounds. Then Gray gets into the car, leaving Max alone and certain that she made the right choice. She doesn't belong in the back of an expensive car with Gray Rodriguez any more than she does in Paramount's penthouse. And, given the way one of the security guards glares at her from the lobby of Paramount's building, Max decides she probably doesn't even belong on the sidewalk in this neighbourhood.

That thought ignites another kernel of defiance inside her, but since she doesn't want to end her afternoon getting detained for loitering, Max simply waves at the security guard then gets moving. She walks away with her gear bag weighing her down, her hands stuffed into her pockets, no destination in mind, and her thoughts on Paramount. Max wonders how long the memories of Paramount will last, now that she's given away every image she took of her.

Max summons the memories of Paramount standing by the window, the way the light picked out the defined muscles in her arms, the brief moment of hesitation when Max took pictures with her Polaroid, the smirk that seemed so much more honest than the sunny smile. Max finds herself smiling. She thinks that she'll remember Paramount for a long time to come.

She suspects that Paramount will already have forgotten who she is, but Max still smiles to herself. It's been a crazy day, but she can feel reality settling around her already. She loads a new memory card into her camera and slings it around her neck. She decides to wander around for a while, looking for things to shoot, before she has to go back home and get back to sorting through the things she'll need to take with her when she goes back to Seattle.

* * *

Victoria smiles for the cameras. It's an automatic instinct, a kind of muscle memory that's as much a part of her hero training as the combat techniques she's mastered. But it takes more effort than usual this evening, partly because she's on a red carpet facing dozens of lenses from several angles--which means she has to look natural while smiling unnaturally for a couple of minutes. Mostly, though, it's challenging because she's on her father's arm and close proximity to him typically fills her with the urge to punch him in his smirking mouth.

Before she knew about her powers, Victoria couldn't imagine doing so much as speaking back to him, no matter how often she wanted to. But these days...almost nothing has changed. Victoria no longer fears her allowance being cut off, she just fears him exposing all of her secrets to the world. It would hurt him, too, of course. Financially, rather than emotionally, but Victoria knows if she ever tries to cut ties with him, he'd bring her down rather than let her embarrass him.

"You seem distracted, Victoria," he murmurs into her ear as the cameras flash. "I thought you'd be pleased to have a night out after your complaints yesterday!"

"I'm thrilled," Victoria growls. She has to force herself to relax, letting the tension drain from the muscles in her neck and shoulders. Taylor has provided her with a beautiful white gown to go with her pearls, which is perfect for the latest Chase Foundation auction at the Getty Center, but the shoulder straps and plunging neckline expose her shoulders and neck. She needs to remember that and stay calm. Paramount has to be poised and dignified at all times, after all. "I need champagne."

"One glass only," her father says calmly. "I think that's about enough."

She's about to argue over his definition of enough champagne when she realises that he's talking about the photographers. She raises her free hand in a salute and lets her father lead her away from the media scrum and into the cooler, calmer air of the Center itself.

"Thank fuck." He flinches and she grins. "I think I'm done with cameras for the day."

"Must you be so vulgar? Your reputation--"

"No one's close enough to hear anything."

"There are representatives of your sponsors here tonight, Victoria. Be _sensible!_ "

It's tempting to point out that if he was worried about how the sponsors might react to her swearing, he shouldn't have forced her to come here. But it's easier to say nothing and let him think he's won, particularly since it isn't going to be their only fight of the evening.

They walk, arm in arm, into the hall where the works of artists secured by Victoria's mother through her gallery, the Chase Space, are going to be sold by a celebrity auctioneer. Victoria tries to summon some enthusiasm for any of it, but even the photography on display seems passionless. Victoria wonders how much her soured mood is the issue, or whether it's comparison to Max's Polaroids makes these supposed artists' works suffer.

She spots a waiter and clears her throat. Her father sighs and signals the waiter, releasing her arm at last so that he can take two flutes of champagne from the waiter's tray. He passes one to Victoria and quietly but firmly says, "One glass."

Victoria has to fight not to roll her eyes. She waits until the waiter's gone before she asks, "How long do you expect me to waste my time at this fucking thing?"

"At a fundraiser for our charity? To build a school to serve several villages in Peru? You consider that a waste?"

"You don't need me here to achieve any of that. That's the wasteful part. I could be doing so many other things with my Saturday night!"

"Ah." He begins to stroll around the room, inclining his head now and again to people he seems to think are almost as important as he believes himself to be. "Yes, you're such a fine judge of how to use your time wisely."

"After the interview, I had to deal with Facemelter and Battalion attacking the HeroCon. Every fucking day it's something!" Victoria reminds herself not to tense up. "I haven't had real relaxation time in--"

"Enough." He sighs. "I expect you to stay for, oh, the entire auction. Barring an emergency, of course. You can make your excuses after that. I suppose you'll want to go out on patrol later, hmm? Like you did _last_ night."

"Jesus." Victoria sips her drink, glancing at the photography so she doesn't have to look at any of the people staring in wonder now that they've realised that Paramount is among them. "I was just going _dancing_."

"You should have cleared it with me first, Victoria. That's the rule."

"You don't get to decide what I do for fun!" Victoria pauses at a display case and leans down to examine a portrait of a Peruvian girl, grinning up at the camera with an incomplete set of baby teeth. "I'm a fucking adult," she hisses.

"Then why do you insist on behaving like a child? Victoria. Victoria, look at me." Reluctantly, she does. "Everything I do is for your benefit. _Everything_." It'd be so easy to believe him, even now. There's a part of Victoria she wishes she could erase that _wants_ to believe him when he says things like that. But all she has to do is wait for him to take a breath and speak again for the illusion to be broken. "I refuse to let all of my labour and all of your potential go to waste, Victoria. Cheap thrills, pointless rebellion...they might bring you fleeting satisfaction, but what is that compared to the _legacy_ we're creating?"

Victoria stares at him, jaw clenched, teeth exposed in what might be considered a smile, until he sighs and looks away. Before he can speak again, she says, "I took your advice."

"Oh?" He eyes her warily. "Which part of it?"

"I found a photographer." Victoria takes another sip of champagne, dismayed to see that her glass is already half empty and she is entirely without a buzz. "I'm bringing her onto the team. You won't have to worry so much about me doing low-key hero things when I'll have a photographer putting out daily updates."

"This has been arranged? She's been vetted?" His face darkens. "Without my knowledge?"

"No, no! Nothing like that," Victoria says quickly, touching his forearm. "I only met her today. She was freelancing for _Unmasked_. She has a good eye, and she's unsigned." Victoria takes another sip, watching her father smooth out his features to leave no trace of anger showing. "I decided to show initiative, that's all."

"In a positive direction for once. Fine," he says dismissively. He glances round and beckons at someone. "Send the details to my office. We'll give her a trial run and see if she has as much potential as you think."

"No. I told you, I'm bringing her onto the team. _My_ team. I'm not giving you any more control over my image than you already have." He glares at her. He opens his mouth, but Victoria pats his arm and puts on her most winning smile. "But that's Switchboard for you! He connects people, but he doesn't know how to act around them! Oh, but I'm being rude! Father, you simply must introduce me to this charming person!"

"What...?" Her father blinks. He looks at the woman he beckoned over who hovers nervously at his elbow. She's wearing a green blazer and directing a look of constipated awe between Victoria and her father. "Oh. Yes. Erica, this is my daughter, Paramount." He looks at Victoria and compresses his lips into something that could be mistaken for a smile. "Erica is here to brief you on the auciton."

It's Victoria's turn to blink. "What? Why?"

Erica presses forward, offering Victoria her hand. "Oh, it's just to go over a few details and points of etiquette! I'm so excited to be working with you, Paramount! I had no idea Mr Chase meant _you_ when he said there'd be a celebrity auctioneer!"

"No," Victoria says distantly, watching the smug satisfaction coalesce on her father's face. She checks to make sure she isn't tapping any of her reservoirs before she shakes Erica's hand. "It was intended to be a surprise, I imagine..."

"Yes," her father says, smiling at Erica. "My daughter seems to be very fond of surprises, and I suppose it inspires me to...indulge her from time to time." He directs a chilly glance at Victoria, and she wonders what price she'll have to pay for hiring Max. Assuming Courtney can even convince Max to take the job. Victoria feels a twinge of unease and wonders if she should leave _everything_ to Courtney. She's pulled from her thoughts when her father nods at Victoria, his smile tightening. "Now! I must go play the host. I'll leave you in Erica's capable hands. Be good, Victoria."

"Of course!" Muscle memory puts a smile on Victoria's lips. "I'll see you later."

He inclines his head, turns on his heel, and strides away, raising his hand in greeting to a guest.

"You're so lucky, having a father like that," Erica sighs. She winces then plasters on a nervous grin. "And I'm so lucky, getting to work with you! Now! I'm here to assist you all night, so if there's _anything_ you need, at any point, let me know! Can I get you anything before we go over tonight's lots?"

"Yes." Victoria stares at her father's and drains the last of her champagne. She thrusts the empty at Erica. "I need you to make sure this glass doesn't get empty again."

* * *

Reality for Max is spending the rest of her weekend with virtually nothing to do. She pays Juliet the rent money she owes and treats her to a takeout dinner and a bottle of wine on Sunday night. Of course, that gets Juliet curious about where the money came from, but all Max can do is admit she signed an NDA and that Juliet will just have to wait for a month before Max can get into any details. As much of a gossip as Juliet is, she's professional enough to respect the NDA, only making three attempts to wheedle information out of Max as they eat, before letting the subject drop. Instead, they talk about the fact that Max is going to have to move out.

Juliet assures her it won't be a problem, she knows someone who can move in within a week. It should be a relief, and it is, that she isn't leaving Juliet in the lurch. But it leaves Max wondering if she's had any sort of impact at all during her time in LA. It leaves her wondering is she should have left Seattle in the first place.

By the time the bottle of wine is empty, though--most of it having been emptied into her flatmate--Juliet is tipsy enough to pull Max into a hug and admit that she'll miss her. It makes Max feel better, even if Juliet mostly seems bummed that Max isn't going to work for her blog.

Max's phone lights up only twice over the weekend. The first time is a call from her mother, making further arrangements for her return to Seattle. Max has to admit that she didn't get the _Unmasked_ job and she has no steady work on the horizon. Her mother commiserates without managing to sound surprised.

The second time her phone chimes, it's a text from Chloe, asking Max if she can cover a shift at the bar on Monday. And since Max has nothing else to do but take a few bags of her things to Goodwill, then mope around her room, she says that she can. Which is why Monday evening finds Max wearing a frilly white shirt, flared black pants, a bright red bandana, an eye patch, and an inflatable parrot on her shoulder behind the bar of The Drunken Sailor.

Chloe Price grins at Max from the other side of the bar, running a hand through her blue hair which was, until minutes ago, confined under a black tricorn hat. "Thanks, Long Max Silver! You're a lifesaver! I wouldn't have survived another double shift."

Max and Chloe were bffs for eight years in their hometown of Arcadia Bay until Max's parents moved to Seattle. The actual expiration date on their best friend status turned out to be five years rather than forever, though. Five years of dwindling contact online eroded the word 'best' away from the formula, though they at least stayed friends. Chloe met a girl called Rachel who became her best friend, then her girlfriend, and Max...made some friends in high school, and lost touch with them. Then she moved to LA and made some more friends--and even dated a little--in college.

It's hard to say if Max and Chloe would be friends at all if Rachel hadn't left Chloe a year after Max moved to LA. Max was one of the people sucked up into the void Rachel left in Chloe's heart, and while she wishes Chloe wasn't in so much pain, she's increasingly grateful for all the time she's had over the past couple of years that she never thought she'd get to spend with Chloe. They aren't best friends again. Not yet, and maybe not ever, but getting closer to Chloe has made Max more determined to make the forever part stick this time.

"It's okay, I wasn't busy," Max says softly. "I'm happy to cover for you. And, honestly, getting me shifts here has been a big help the last few months. I should be thanking you!"

"Oh, no, Max. Nuh-uh. You've saved an actual life. Several lives!" Chloe grins and gestures along the bar, where the only two occupied stools are filled by Chloe's friends Steph and Mikey. Mikey rolls his eyes at Chloe's theatrics, but Steph just shares a knowing look with Max and smiles. "Game night would've been a bust without you! You think these two could manage on their own?"

Max isn't sure. All she knows is that Steph, Mikey and Chloe are a pretty tight unit, one Max isn't a part of. She makes a show of raising an eyebrow and consider the others. "Eh, Steph could probably do okay..."

"Maxine! How could you?" Chloe clutches at her heart. "Don't you know that there's an entire town of villagers about to be eaten by trolls--"

"Don't you have to live in a village to be a villager?" Mikey asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "And it's literally called Faalgaarn _City_ , so--"

"See what I have to put up with?" Chloe says, smirking. "These nerds would be lost without me! While they're getting hung up on _details_ , they're not kicking ass. And if no one's kicking ass, then an entire village full of citizens will end up doooomed!"

Max giggles. She tries not to think about the fact that she's leaving in a week. She tries not to think about what it's going to be like, telling Chloe that she's leaving. Again.

Steph sighs. "You're not even fighting trolls, C. But you're right about one thing."

"I'm right about everything! But which thing in particular?"

Steph nudges Mikey, then she gives Max a weirdly intense look. "Every life you save tonight, it's partly thanks to Max."

Mikey nods solemnly. Even Chloe seems to sober for a moment.

Max blinks, trying to process their expressions. "You guys are _really_ into this game, huh?"

"Yeah." Chloe chuckles. "Nothing like game night to blow off some steam!"

Steph snorts. "For you, maybe. For me it's..." She hesitates, then smiles brightly at Max. "Work! Because I'm the GM! So game night takes work. For me."

"Ah...makes sense?" Max looks at Chloe, who shakes her head. "Uh, hey! I've been meaning to say, Steph, I love the new hair! I don't think I'd be brave enough to shave it all off, but it suits you!"

"Oh." Steph tugs her beanie down over her head. "Thanks, Max," she mumbles.

"Aaanyway," Chloe says, rubbing her hands together, "we should probably go save some townsfolk in the big city!"

Mikey sighs and slides off the bar stool. "We're going to be dealing with this all night, huh? Let's do a coffee run. Bye, Max."

He smiles shyly at her.

"Bye, Mikey. I hope you save all the citizens."

"Thank you! See, Max understands how to differentiate between--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Chloe gives him a playful shove, directing him towards the door. "Let's move! It's game night, people!"

"Roger." Steph grabs Mikey's arm and begins hauling him away. "Thanks, Max! See you soon!"

Max watches, bemused, as they navigate the tables that are laid out like Caribbean islands, Mikey occasionally having to duck under the leaves of a plastic palm tree. She smiles, until she turns to find Chloe staring at her. "What?"

"You okay, dude?" Chloe asks softly. "You seem a little out of it."

Max opens her mouth, remembers her NDA, and sighs. "I...got a job. A one-off thing, but it was pretty cool. I'm not allowed to talk about it, though. Not in detail. I guess...it felt good, like something I could do for real, maybe. But it's already over, and..."

"You're not allowed to talk about it." Chloe smiles wryly. "That must suck. But whatever, Max! It must've been a serious job, so that means it's the first step on your way up. Dude, if anybody I know is going to make it in this town, it's you."

"Don't you mean this village?"

Chloe grins. "Right! I'd better get out there, but don't worry, Max! You've got this, and I've got your back."

"Thanks, Chloe." Max swallows and exchanges a fist bump with Chloe, almost dislodging her parrot. Chloe's fist bumps pack surprising punch. "Hey, uh...maybe when you've got some time we could hang out? There's something else I need to tell you."

"I'll check my schedule and see where I can crayon you in. Later, Max!"

Chloe saunters off, picking her way effortlessly through the clutter of the bar. Max watches her go and sighs. She looks around the almost empty bar and sighs again. Her only customers are a man and a woman in their early seventies who admitted to Max that they only come to a pirate-themed bar because they're having an affair and don't want to risk running into anyone they know.

Max sighs a third time. "Guess I'll swab the deck."

She's hunting for cleaning supplies under the bar when she hears a pair of booted feet clacking across the floor. Max stands up, putting as fearsome a pirate scowl on her face as she can manage. "Ahoy, matey! Welcome to--shit!"

Paramount is standing in front of Max, one sleek eyebrow raised. "Yo ho ho," she says flatly. 

"Oh!" Max knows that her face is redder than her bandana. She's on the verge of hyperventilating when she notices that the corner of Paramount's mouth is curved up into a smirk. Her green eyes are intense, but not exactly scary. Max takes a deep, slow breath and tries to start over. "Hi! Did you... _want_ a Yo Ho Ho? It's a rib platter on our menu. It, uh, comes with a rum cocktail. In a bottle."

"Fascinating." Paramount frowns. "Shouldn't ribs be something like a Dead Man's Chest?"

"...yeah, probably? Though that's maybe a bit cannibalistic?" Max winces and nervously adjusts her parrot. "Um...sorry. Can I...help you?"

Paramount glances around the bar. Max isn't sure, but she thinks she sees Paramount shudder. "Maybe. First, sign this."

Paramount unzips her white biker jacket--because she's wearing a white biker jacket, Max abruptly realises, with a white tank top underneath--and produces a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket. She unfolds it and places it in front of Max.

Max lifts her eyepatch and starts to read. She shoots a look at Paramount. "I already signed an NDA..."

"That was for the other day." Paramount places what looks like an aggressive miniature stun baton beside the NDA. It takes Max a moment to work out that it's a fountain pen. "This is for the next two minutes."

Max swallows. She makes a show of reading the paper, mostly so she can buy some time to put her thoughts in order. None of the legalese penetrates her confusion. Because why does Paramount want to talk to _her_? And why does it need to be so secretive? Paramount shifts, her jacket creaking, and Max realises there's only one way she's going to get any answers. She picks up the pen, figures out how to uncap it after a couple of sweaty seconds, and signs her name.

"Finally." With inhuman speed and grace, Paramount plucks the NDA and her pen from Max's hands. She takes a small, black box from another pocket and puts it on the bar. Then she takes a thicker sheaf of paper from her inside pocket and places it next to the box, and finally she places an engraved business card on the other side of the box. "The box is a white noise generator. The papers are a contract which you're going to read tonight." She taps the business card with one long, elegant finger. Her nails are painted red, like her lips, Max notices. She smells like very expensive flowers, a part of Max's brain she kind of wishes would shut up, points out. "And this is the law office you'll be showing up at tomorrow at 8am."

Max gapes at her. "Huh?"

"Read the contract, Max. I'm going to give you a job. Unless..." Victoria looks around the bar, her eye pausing on a stuffed monkey sitting on top of a treasure chest overflowing with chipped plastic doubloons. "Maybe you're good here?"

Max shakes her head. "I...don't...what?"

Paramount snorts. "Everything we've discussed and everything I've given you is covered by the NDA. So be careful with it. Courtney will meet you tomorrow, as I have other business to attend to. But I trust I'll see you soon. Good night, Max."

"Wait, I still don't--"

"I liked the Polaroids you left for me," Paramount says simply. "8am. Don't be late."

She clicks off the white noise generator, tucks it back into her pocket, nods at Max and strides away. Max is about to call out to her, but she blinks, and, when her eyes open, Paramount is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And don't worry, Courtney and Taylor will be getting lots more screen time soon! That...is what you were worried about, right?
> 
> Please do leave a comment with your thoughts, speculations, worries or criticisms! All will be gratefully accepted!
> 
> See you in a fortnight!


	5. Chapter 5

Victoria wakes up above the covers. After a disorienting second in which she adjusts from sleepily recognising that something is wrong to tapping her reservoirs to prepare for any possible threat, Victoria discovers something interesting: she hasn't simply woken up above the covers, she's woken up three feet above her bed, facing the memory foam mattress.

Sensing no external threats, Victoria focuses inward. She checks her reservoirs, unsurprised to discover a new one she apparently started tapping in her sleep. She tries to taper off the flow of power, but it's always the same with a new reservoir: there's barely anything in it at first. The last drop of power drains away and gravity reasserts itself over Victoria, dumping her face first onto her bed.

"Fucking...shit! Fucking _fuck_ this bullshit!" Victoria rolls over, flopping onto her back. She runs her hands through her hair, finding it impressively tangled. She grits her teeth. "Fucking _asshole_. He promised he wouldn't pull this shit on me again. Ugh, every single flier I’ve met is a total fucking douchebag. I'm not fucking doing it!"

Victoria's room wakes up at the sound of her tirade. Much as she wants to bury her head under a pillow, Victoria knows she can't. She groans and forces herself upright, going through the motions of another day. While she's brushing her teeth she weighs the merits of messaging her father to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, trying to engineer the development of new powers without consulting her. But she knows there are no merits. He'll only ignore her anger to focus on the success of his attempt. And from there, he'll have his people pitching all sorts of ideas to focus groups about how to develop her power set.

Victoria shudders. She spits into the sink, the mint of her toothpaste insufficient to mask the bitterness sinking into her tongue.

Distracted as she is by her father's latest attempt to fuck with her, it isn't until Victoria is showering that she remembers this isn't a day like any other. All going well, today is the day Max Caulfield joins the team.

Victoria can't help the snort of laughter that escapes her, remembering Max in her pirate costume. She's consumed by a fit of giggles, thinking about Max's face when she'd popped up from behind the bar. She'd looked so _shocked_! So terrified! There's something almost endearingly pathetic about Max, Victoria thinks. She'd hardly be worth a second look if it wasn't for the talent burning inside her. Although...there's more to her than that, Victoria has to concede. The way she stood up to Victoria, and then the decision to leave those Polaroids behind...there's someone potentially fascinating lurking under Max's nervous, bumbling exterior. Working with her, drawing her out, is going to be...exciting.

As she washes, it seems to Victoria that she's scrubbing every trace of laughter away along with the dirt. She thinks about Max, with her big blue eyes that see so much, and wonders if she's making a mistake. Deciding to hire her was impulsive. Victoria hasn't really figured out exactly what she wants Max to _do_ yet. And even with the reams of paperwork enforcing Max's discretion, it's not like Victoria can trust Max the way she does Taylor and Courtney.

Victoria purses her lips, considering her face in the mirror. She'll need Taylor's help dealing with the bags under her eyes, but she looks...strong. Capable. Determined.

All the things she doesn't feel.

"I need something to change," Victoria confides to her reflection. "I need someone..." Victoria sees her reflection frowning, and shakes her head. "The whole team needs new blood. It'll be a challenge for all of us, but that's a good thing. We need that."

And, maybe most importantly of all, whatever issues her presence might raise, Max won't be bringing with her any of the baggage one of her father's minions inevitably would.

Victoria catches herself before she can nod at her reflection. "Jesus, _I_ need to stop fucking talking to myself."

She slips on her robe, but, before she can join Taylor for breakfast, her phone starts ringing. Victoria recognises Warden’s ringtone at once and groans. They’ve worked together almost a dozen times and they always get good press when they team up. The public has taken to calling them super besties on social media, much to the distress of Victoria’s gag reflex. Dana does seem to be a nice, sincere person, admittedly, but that’s one of several things Victoria can’t stand about her. Still, Warden wouldn’t call if it wasn’t an emergency and Paramount isn’t the kind of hero who would leave a friend hanging. 

Even if the friend in question is more of a work colleague, as far as Victoria is concerned.

Victoria grabs her phone from her desk and answers. “What’s up, Warden?”

“Morning, Victoria!” There’s a hint of strain in Warden’s usually cheerful voice. Victoria can hear shrieking metal and screaming in the background. “Uh, I could use an assist, if you’re not too busy? Bicepticon and his crew are robbing an armoured car. We’re ten blocks from your building and he’s headed your way, so...”

“When you say robbing an armoured car, do you mean…?”

“Yeah, he--” There’s the sound of gunfire, and Warden grunts. “Sorry! Needed to shield some officers! Yeah, Bicepticon picked up the truck and is running off with it. I think he’s been working out since the last time I took him down. Given how quickly he’s moving, he definitely hasn’t been skipping leg day!”

“Uh huh.” The quips are another barrier to Victoria ever wanting to socialise with Warden. “I’ll be right there. I’ll hit him at speed, you catch the van in a shield?”

“Then we mop up the goons with guns. Sounds like a plan! Thanks, Vic. I owe you one!”

Victoria hangs up. She shrugs off her robe and pulls a jumpsuit out of her wardrobe. She deliberately forgets to put on her Rolex before she taps her speed reservoir and takes her hidden stairs out of the building.

* * *

Max is already awake when her alarm sounds. It's about the only useful side effect of not sleeping last night. Max swats her phone, killing the alarm, and hauls herself out of bed. She trudges to the bathroom, hoping that a nice long shower will clear the fog from her brain.

Not that all of her confusion is down to a lack of sleep.

Max decided to stay up late and read the contract when she got home from the bar. Max is less than fluent in legalese, though, and the elaborate, polished language passed through the grooves of her brain without offering her ming any traction. All Max could really tell after an hour is that Paramount wants to hire her for up to a year and that there will be Consequences if she fucks up in any of the many ways that the contract spends paragraph after paragraph outlining. After that, Max had tried to sleep. After failing at that for half an hour, she'd picked up her phone and googled Paramount. 

What Max had found hadn't made sleep any easier, but it had given her some context for the job offer. Though Paramount had a significant web presence and there were plenty of images and videos of her online, Max realised that there few candid shots or videos. There were only a few videos of Paramount in action, most of them professionally edited from footage captured by news crews. There were more still images of Paramount in hero mode, but most of them were taken by Paramount herself. And she was almost always smiling that famous smile.

Max had scrolled through images and read interview excerpts until her eyes were sore. She'd lain on her back with her eyes closed and her phone on her chest, thinking about how narrow a view the world has of who Paramount is. Max had thought that maybe Paramount wanted to change that and hiring Max was a first step in the process.

That thought had been the one that had kept Max from sleeping at all. It haunts her in the shower still, where she thinks about intense green eyes and a red-lipped smirk. When she's tired of the way her anxiety keeps chasing her thoughts around, Max twists the temperature control on the shower to as cold as it will go.

She leaves the bathroom with her teeth chattering, but her mind is quiet at least.

Since Max still has some funds left from her _Unmasked_ gig, she takes a cab to the offices of Rite, Prentiss & Park. She's wearing a black skirt and jacket, by far the most formal things she owns and, she quickly discovers, nowhere near formal enough. The lobby that Max walks into is oppressive in its opulence: it's all marble and gold, with no clear indication of where to go other than the reception desk directly ahead. It isn't a long walk to the man waiting behind it, but it's a lonely one. When she gets there, the receptionist wrinkles his nose, presumably at the unfamiliar and unpleasant scent of polyester in Max's clothes.

The card Paramount gave her proves to be an effective talisman, though. Max finds herself being escorted by a man her age--who is wearing a suit Max suspects is more expensive than her entire wardrobe--first into a gilded elevator, then along a wood-panelled corridor, and finally into a plush meeting room. Max sinks a couple of inches into the chair she's offered. She gratefully accepts the further offer of a cup of coffee. It arrives steaming in an antique white china cup, borne on a silver tray with a matching china sugar bowl and a jug of cream. After that, the man in the suit leaves and Max is alone in a room that could hold twenty people.

Max waits, sipping her coffee in spite of the acid already roiling in her belly. She fights the impulse to lean her elbows on the mahogany table. She loses track of time, feeling the passing seconds press down on her with alien gravity. Max eventually decides to check her phone, only to find it dead and unresponsive when she tries to switch it back on.

"It's a security measure," a woman says, her voice brisk. "It'll be fine once you're outside again."

Max jumps, her phone dropping out of her clammy hands with a muted _thump_ into the deep pile of the ivory carpet. She looks up to find Paramount's assistant, Courtney, striding to a seat on the opposite side of the table from Max. An immaculately groomed man in his fifties takes a seat at the head of the table. 

"Mr Rite is here to oversee any potential changes to the terms of the contract and to witness your signature." Courtney pulls out a chair and sits down. She places a folder on the table, opens it, and produces a series of documents which she lines up neatly in front of her. Her back remains straight and her shoulders level throughout. "For now, though, you and I will go over a few things in private."

"Good morning." Mr Rite nods at Max, then makes an ostentatious display of putting on a pair of headphones. He raises one long-fingered hand and begins energetically conducting the music he's listening to. He smiles at Max's quizzical expression. "Death metal Mongolian throat singing. I find the genre to be most invigorating at the start of the day," he explains before closing his eyes and losing himself to the music with a beatific smile.

Max shakes her head. She recovers her phone, slipping it into her bag. She tries to recover her posture from its habitual slouch and aims a smile at Courtney. It misses. Courtney is apparently too absorbed in reading what's in front of her to notice Max. Max waits for perhaps a minute before she works up the courage to break the silence. "Um, hi?"

Courtney's brow furrows. She looks up, staring at Max with blue eyes far less pale in colour than Chloe's but much, much colder. "Why are you seeking employment with Victoria Chase?"

"Huh?" Max blinks. "I...she, uh, Paramount? She offered me a job...?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I'm the one who took point on putting all of this together." Courtney massages her temples with the tips of two fingers. "I'm asking why you're here, _accepting_ the offer."

"Well..." Max glances at the cheerfully oblivious lawyer. It doesn't help her come up with a good answer, any more than chasing her own thoughts instead of sleeping last night did. "I'm not really sure what this job even is yet. I guess I'm here to figure that out."

Courtney purses her lips. "Didn't you read the contract?"

"I mean, I tried..." Max puts on another smile. "It, uh, spent a lot of time trying not to say anything coherent? I get that I'll be doing photography, but it mentions other duties a bunch of times. I'm not clear on what that means."

"I see." Courtney leans back in her chair. Max thinks she hears a very faint sigh escape Courtney's lips. "Victoria wants you to be her staff photographer. To fulfil that role, you'll need to be available 24/7 for the duration of your contract. When she calls, or I do, you'll be required to make yourself available. Your primary role will be documenting Paramount's heroic activities, but as part of Victoria's team, you'll be expected to help out in a variety of roles. Public relations, personal assistance, research...really, anything and everything that Victoria requires of you at any given moment. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Oh." If anything, it's even more confusing. But Max nods, aware that she's not making a good impression and keen to mitigate that as best she can. "Thanks, I get it now."

"Do you?" Courtney shakes her head. "Let me be blunt. Barring early termination, Victoria is asking you to devote yourself to her for the next year. If you sign that contract, the life you know will end and a whole new one will begin. You will be part of a team that supports a world-class superhero. That comes with responsibilities you can't imagine right now. That comes with dangers, too. You could be targeted by criminals, Max. By villains. Even if you aren't directly targeted, some of your work will put you into combat zones. You will face real, physical threats. And aside from the fact that you could be called into work at any moment, and that you will be working _long_ hours, this job will put incredible pressure on your social life.

"You won't be allowed to tell anyone any specifics of what you do for Victoria for up to ten years after your employment ends. You will be absolutely forbidden from discussing any aspects of Victoria's private life with anyone, ever. You aren't in a relationship now, but if you were hoping to start one, this job will prevent it. If you didn't understand the implications in the contract, Max, it might be best if we--"

"How do you know I'm not seeing...are you serious?" Max's face is hot and her hands are balled into fists under the table. "You've been spying on me too?"

"Are _you_ serious? My job is to protect the interests of a superhero," Courtney counters, unfazed. "We paid _Unmasked_ for access to their files on you, but only because it was more expedient than launching an independent investigation. Victoria is keen for you to start right away. If she was less keen on you specifically, I'd be trying to dissuade you from signing up at all."

"You mean you're _not_ trying? It really seems like you are."

"No, I'm trying to help you understand what you're getting into. You have to be fully committed to this, Max. There's no backing out. After reading your files, I'm not sure this is a suitable--"

"Is that sort of information sharing even legal?"

"You're welcome to challenge the legality of our actions in court." Courtney gestures around the room. "How do you think that'll go?"

Max's face gets hotter. She takes a few seconds to breathe, and to think. There's so much more to this than she anticipated. Max is hopelessly out of her depth, so much so that she still doesn't fully understand what this job even is. Max didn't exactly think that she'd be turning up a few times a week to take snaps of Paramount, but what Courtney is describing sounds pretty terrifying. It sounds like something only a committed, determined adult would do. 

Max is not committed or determined. She's wearing her lucky She-Ra socks. She might not even count as an adult.

"Max, if you have doubts about this, then I'd suggest--"

"Why do _you_ do it?" Max meets Courtney's eyes. "Why do you work for Paramount?"

For a moment, Max thinks Courtney won't answer. She simply stares at Max, her mouth pinched. But, at last, Courtney's posture becomes less rigid and she says, "Victoria is my friend. She has been for years, since before...before anyone's powers came into things. She's a good friend. I'll work for her, for as long as she needs me."

"Oh." Max chews her lip. "Oh. Okay, I do get _that_."

"Good. Now answer my question." Maybe it's Max's imagination, but Courtney's expression see!s to soften. "Why do you want this job?"

Max swallows. She's less and less sure that she does. But she doesn't want to go home, and a job like this...it's only for a year. How bad could it be? After this, Max is confident that no matter how secretive she has to be about her time in Paramount's employ, she'll have a body of work behind her that will speak for itself. This is an opportunity not just to walk her own path, but to make it.

She knows, too, that all of that might be true, but it's only the scaffolding she's building around her crumbling courage. The truth is something else: Max doesn't want this job. She needs it. She doubts she could articulate that need to Courtney--she can barely articulate it to herself. But she decides to be as honest as she can.

"I...you already know I don't have a ton of experience. As a photographer. But I want...I want to do something that matters. And Paramount matters. I want to be part of that. I want to shoot her, because..." Max swallows. She remembers Paramount's last words to her. _I liked the Polaroids you left for me_. "I think the world only gets to see her from one angle and even in an hour I could tell there's so much more to her than we get to see. I think she deserves to...to be seen. I'd like to try to help show the world who Paramount really is."

And that's true, all of it, but there's a part that Max can't express: Max wants and needs to _figure out_ who Paramount really is. It's a need that has been building in her from the moment she saw Paramount silhouetted at that window. Max doesn't understand all of the things that are bound up in that need, but she knows she can't pass up a chance to work with Paramount again. She knows she can't pass up a chance to get to know the woman who lives behind the false, famous smile.

Courtney watches her, considering. "I can't emphasise enough that Victoria's privacy is sacrosanct. You'll likely learn things that could be damaging to her. In, ah, her role as a hero. The contract is _binding_ , especially when it comes to her privacy. Breaching it will have serious consequences for you."

"I mean, I don't intend to blab to anyone..."

Courtney raises an eyebrow. "Not even as an anonymous source to Juliet Watson, hero gossip blogger and your soon to be former flatmate?"

"Okay, can you stop with all the creepy stuff? Because it's creepy that everyone knows all this stuff about me. But, no, of course not. Juliet is a friend, but I'd never tell her--or anyone--something that could compromise any hero. You don't need to threaten to sue me."

"Sue you?" Courtney snorts. "This is a _hero_ firm. The partners are experts in law and magic. Breach of contract will _curse_ you. If you think it'll be relevant, you could ask Mr Rite for the details of exactly how the curse works"

Max gapes at her. "You're making that up...right?"

"Yes," Courtney says briskly. "Clearly, I'm displaying my famous sense of humour. Moving on, you're comfortable with the basic provisions? A one year contract, with Victoria retaining the right to terminate at any point without notice and to renew at the end of the year. Pay will start at $100,000, subject to renegotiation pending renewal of contract. In addition to basic pay, various other perks, equipment and facilities will be at your disposal during the period of your employ, subject to Victoria's approval. Clear enough?"

Max would like greater clarity on everything, especially the curse part, but Courtney's tone makes it evident that she's ready to move things along. And, for all the doubt and anxiety churning in Max's belly, Max is almost ready to move on, too.

Almost.

The thing is, though, that while getting $100,000 for a year of work is insane, and way beyond what she could have hoped for, Max has had enough of feeling confused and is more than a little tired of being railroaded. She pounces on the one thing that she has any ability to challenge.

She clears her throat and says, "Ah, actually there is one thing. You just got done telling me how tough and demanding this job is going to be, and, ah, w-we both know that in situations like this, the first offer is, uh, always a lowball. R-Right? So, um, I don't think $100,000 is going to work."

"You don't think...?" Courtney's nostrils flare. Her shoulders and her mouth make tight, parallel lines. "I am authorised to go higher, but I won’t haggle. $120,000. Take it or leave it."

Max pretends to consider it, mostly so she can buy time for her heart to slow down. Her voice only cracks slightly when she says, "Yeah, uh, that'll be fine."

"Hmm. A little ruthless self-interest. Maybe you do have some idea of what you're getting into after all. I was worried about how much I'd have to babysit you." Courtney clicks her fingers, making Max jump. Max jumps again when the lawyer removes his headphones and smiles at them both. "Mr Rite, we need to make a small adjustment to the contract before Max signs."

"Certainly," Mr Rite says. He rubs his hands together, making a sound like Fall leaves being blown across a sidewalk. "Regarding?"

Max hunkers down in her seat. She may have argued as a matter of principle, but now that it's about to become reality, Max feels guilty. Her new salary for Paramount is going to be nearly as much as her parents' combined. Max tells herself that they wouldn't be paying her more if they didn't think she was worth it. She tries to hide her uncertainty by finishing her cooling coffee.

"Max's pay. She will now be receiving $120,000 a month, Mr Rite," Courtney explains calmly.

Max spits coffee all over the mahogany table, dappling the snow white stacks of paperwork in front of Courtney.

* * *

The prospect of becoming a millionaire has a numbing effect on Max, rendering her embarrassment relatively short-lived. After a dozen mumbled apologies, Max finds herself armed with a pen and set to work signing her name several dozen times. Max makes an effort at first to at least skim each document before she signs, but there is too much to process. The second time Courtney checks her watch and huffs, Max gives up reading and just signs everything put in front of her.

There are insurance forms, liability waivers, multiple NDAs, something called a 'security enhancement protocol', and page after page of her contract. Max's hand is aching by the time it's all done. She massages it while Courtney busies herself on her phone--which is apparently exempt from the security measure that has killed Max's--and Mr Rite checks and signs his way through the tides of paper she just waded through.

And then, suddenly, Max is shaking Mr Rite's hand and Courtney is guiding her back out to the sunlight. For a moment, Max stands blinking on the sidewalk, trying to work out if she feels any different now that she's Paramount's official photographer. Mostly, she just feels more tired than she did at the start of the morning.

"Come on," Courtney says, touching Max's elbow and gently but firmly steering her towards a van idling down the street. "We have a lot to do today. After the move, we'll have to do basic orientation. And then we'll need to work out the specifics of your SEP."

"Sip? What...no, wait. Move? What do you mean--"

Courtney doesn't quite glare at her, but the look she gives Max is scarier than a frown. Maybe it counts as a scowl? Speaking slowly, Courtney says, "I mean, we are moving you out of your flat and into secure accommodation. It's in your contract, Max."

"Oh. Right. I, uh, of course! I didn't think we'd be doing it right now is all," Max lies. She considers her conversation with Juliet and the packing she's been doing for Seattle. "I'm actually mostly packed. And I don't think Juliet will mind if I move out a few days earlier than I thought I would?"

"Good." Courtney opens the passenger door of the van, speaks briefly to the driver, then moves aside, holding the door open for Max. "Logan and his crew will take care of you. I'll see you later."

Without another word, Courtney turns and strides away, her attention focused on her phone.

Max realises that she didn't ask where she'd be living now, but by the time the question forms, Courtney is climbing into the back of a car. Max sighs, then climbs into the van. She smiles weakly at Logan, then digs out her phone.

Max has never felt further from home than she does when she calls her parents' house. They're working, of course, so Max leaves a message telling them that she's found a job and won't be coming back to Seattle.

* * *

Victoria is watching the police trying to fit restraints around Bicepticon’s immense, grotesquely muscled arms when Courtney calls her. Victoria gestures at Warden, indicating she needs to take a call. Warden nods and offers a parting fist bump. Victoria accepts, for the sake of any cameras, before she taps a reservoir and leaps to the roof of a nearby building.

“Hey, Court.” Victoria didn’t feel nervous when she tackled Bicepticon and he almost dropped an armoured truck on her head, but now her stomach tenses and her mouth dries out. Victoria swallows. “Good news?”

“Honestly? I’d say it’s mixed.”

“Max turned down the job?” Victoria blurts. Courtney is only silent for a second, but it’s a silence that speaks to her surprise. It’s a silence that makes Victoria suddenly angry with herself. Partly for not seeing Max’s refusal coming, but mostly for allowing herself to get so invested in Max in the first place. Eager to end that silence, Victoria snaps, “What happened?”

“Uh, no, sorry, Victoria! Max took the job. It’s all organised. She’s on her way over with the movers now.”

“Oh.” Victoria feels some tension ebb from her body, but the anger stays simmering in her belly. “Good. So what’s the problem?”

“Well…Max taking the job is the problem.” Courtney hesitates. “I don’t think she’s going to be a good fit. I think she’s too inexperienced and too...soft.”

Victoria snorts. She starts pacing along the edge of the roof. “We didn’t have a fucking clue what we were doing when _we_ started, Court.”

“You weren’t a national brand back then. You weren’t on the verge of becoming globally recognised. We could afford to screw up when we were kids. We can’t now. Max can’t either, but you know she will.”

“Courtney, I’m kind of in the middle of something. When Max gets there, I want you to...” 

Victoria trails off, frowning at the chaotic scene below. The fight with Bicepticon and his crew was over in less than a minute once Paramount got involved, but the cleanup will take a while yet. Warden’s shields protected the armoured van--and Victoria’s skull--when Bicepticon dropped it, but as gently as it landed, it still landed on its side, blocking the street. The police have been so busy securing the scene, they haven’t taken her statement yet. Victoria will need to give one before she goes. And she should probably be on hand to help set the vehicle upright again. She should probably stick around in case Bicepticon wakes up, too. But, she decides, there’s a reason people invented cranes, and Warden can manage Bicepticon one on one easily enough. 

“Fuck it. Have Taylor prep something casual and discreet for me to wear. Cancel the rest of my day and skip whatever orientation bullshit you had planned for Max. Oh, and get me a bottle of scotch. The shittiest you can find.”

“Victoria, I can’t just...wait, you’re going to take her to see _Switchboard_? _Already_?”

“You’re worried that she won’t be able to cut it, right?” Victoria smirks, her mind already working on how best to make use of her first few hours with Max. “If Switchboard doesn’t scare her off, Max should be able to handle almost anything.”

“But--”

“Court, stop. For now.” Victoria allows herself an audible sigh. “Please?”

If Courtney sighs, she covers her phone before she does. “Wrap things up over there. I’ll have everything ready by the time you get back.”

“Thank you.”

Victoria hangs up. She allows herself another moment to smirk in anticipation before she composes her expression into one befitting Paramount and jumps back into the chaos below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And oof! Life got busy and this chapter ended up being tricky to write. I did have something drafted for Wednesday, but it was...rough. I hope this one ended up worth the wait. Please do let me know your thoughts in the comments! It's always great to hear your thoughts and speculation! :)
> 
> I'll be aiming to get back on schedule with the next update, so it'll be a week on Wednesday for chapter 6!


	6. Chapter 6

Max isn't sure if it's the fourth or fifth time she's had to re-evaluate how weird her life has become since she decided to work for Paramount, and she's only officially been on the payroll for three hours. Most of that time has been taken up with the move, although at least as much time was spent getting her belongings through building security as it took to pack, transport and unload everything.

Now that she's been cleared, though, Max and her things have ended up in a luxury apartment one floor below Paramount's penthouse suite. The flooring is some kind of dark wood, the walls and rugs and sofas are all white, as are the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows which give Max a view of the city that she thought she'd only ever see in movies. The apartment smells like fresh paint and wood polish and money. Max is clutching her camera bag to her chest, scared that she might touch something and leave it no longer pristine.

"This is...all for me?" Max asks stupidly when Courtney shows up, arriving exactly one second after the movers leave. "I'm going to live _here_ , and you're not charging me rent?"

"No. We're not. Though any furniture or decorations you add will be at your own expense and you will be liable for any damages caused during your stay." Courtney sucks in a breath. In an almost perfectly even tone she says, "All of which was covered in the contract you...say you read."

"Right." Max hugs her bag closer to her chest. "Maybe I, uh, should go over it again?"

"You can do that on your own time. If you ever have some again. Victoria will be here soon. She wants you with her today. Leave your cameras here, though. Before Victoria gets here, we should discuss--"

"I'm working with Paramount, but she doesn't want me to shoot her? I thought--"

"I told you," Courtney says, her voice cold enough to coat the floor in permafrost. "You'll be called on to do whatever Victoria needs at any given moment. At this moment, she doesn't need you to be a photographer. What Victoria does need, she will explain to you herself." Courtney pauses, then, in a much warmer tone--a degree or two above freezing, by Max's estimate--she concludes, "Your photography skills will be needed soon enough, Max. Believe me."

Max does. She doesn't find that belief bringing her much comfort at the moment, not when her skills with a camera are going to have to justify a million dollar price tag. And not when, for the first time, Max asks herself what _else_ she'll be expected to do for that kind of money. Her stomach twists, making her almost glad she hasn't eaten since her early breakfast.

"While we have a minute, we should discuss your SEP," Courtney says, mistaking Max's rising terror for attentiveness. She glances down at her tablet, her fingers beginning to dance over the surface. "Since I won't be overseeing Victoria this afternoon, I think I can free up some time tomorrow morning for a breakdown session. Let's say...6am?"

Given the sleep she missed last night, and how crazy the day has been so far, Max suspects she won't be fit for anything more complicated than groaning at 6am tomorrow. Max wants to protest. She desperately wants to ask Courtney what she's talking about, but she doesn't want to get any further on Courtney's bad side. "Uh, sure," Max says, trying to sound confident. "That sounds good."

"Good." Courtney nods, her focus on her tablet's screen. "An hour should be enough time for a first session, and it'll give you some recovery time before breakfast. Which, ah...you'll be joining us for, I guess. It's...pretty informal, usually. We do talk a little shop, but mostly it's a team tradition to eat at least one meal a day together. Barring an emergency, of course." Courtney looks up, meeting Max's eyes. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, in what Max thinks might be the first involuntary gesture she's seen Courtney make. "That goes for everything we do. It's all barring an emergency. But we...try to fit a little normal into our days, where we can."

"That, uh, that makes a lot of sense. Seriously." Max hesitates, but Courtney still looks slightly off-balance, so Max decides to keep going. "Listen, I know it must be weird, having someone new around. Especially if you guys are old friends. I, uh, I appreciate being included in the meal...thing. Thank you."

"It's team tradition." Courtney shrugs. When her shoulders settle, there's no hint of vulnerability remaining in her posture. "And you're...ah, part of the team. Adjusting to new things might as well be a tradition for us, too."

“I'm still glad I'll be able to join...uh, how big is the team, anyway?" Max frowns as another thought jumps the queue in her subconscious. "Actually, wait. Why would I need _recovery_ ti--"

Max doesn't get a chance to finish her question. It isn't Courtney that cuts her off this time, though. This time, Max is interrupted by a bomb exploding.

* * *

Coming home as Paramount presents challenges than Victoria has grown to truly loathe. Using her--obscenely expensive to install--private staircase at high speed is one thing, but using it coming back, at normal speed, risks giving away her street level access point to any stalkers or villains watching. And, even if she took the regular stairs in her building, it still leaves her with another problem: climbing a fuckload of stairs.

Victoria _could_ tap her reservoirs, use her speed and endurance to make it quick and painless. But she's been trying to keep a tighter grip on her use of her powers since the plate incident the other day, and that means using them only when necessary. So Victoria takes the elevator back to her apartment, hoping that no one else tries to get on while she’s waiting in the lobby. Her fingerprint will turn the elevator into an express taking her to the top floors of the building, _her_ floors, but until she’s inside, Victoria is at the mercy of anyone who happens by. At the best of times, it’d be awkward. In her new costume, it’s fucking mortifying.

Victoria feels justified in cursing the agency that designed the fucking thing. It's white, of course, with a few arctic blue stripes on her shoulders and torso. Her 'utility belt' is purely an accessory, but at least she can fit her phone in it. Nothing else, though, because the suit is to figure hugging what a triangle choke is to an embrace. It doubtless makes her look _heroic_ \--in a low-key pervy way--but it makes her feel uncomfortable, in every possible sense. Taylor will fix it, of course. She'll take the design that's been foisted on them, throw out the shitty prototype Victoria's suffering in, and make something _functional_. Something that will look good _and_ be made of breathable materials. Victoria will still be embarrassed to wear a fucking super suit, but at least it won't chafe.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she reaches her penthouse, then pauses. Obeying an instinct she's begrudgingly learned to trust, Victoria taps a reservoir and enhances her sense of smell. She breathes in, and...

Plastic explosives. Recently detonated.

Victoria groans. She gets back into the elevator, grateful that she only has to go down one floor.

* * *

Max is only barely aware of the tremor that runs through the floor. It's the _noise_ that almost knocks her off her feet. It isn't a simple _bang_ , it's the sonic equivalent of running head first into a wall. It lasts less than a second, Max thinks, but it's hard to tell exactly when it stops because for nearly a minute everything sounds like it's wading through a swamp to get to Max's ears.

"What...are we being attacked?" Max shakes her head, then looks at Courtney. "What do we do?"

"Jesus!" Courtney's lips are pressed into a tight line. Her free hand is curled into a fist. "I told her to install that soundproofing. And I _told_ her to wait for Victoria! I'm going to kill her if she’s dead!"

Courtney turns on her heel and stalks out of the apartment. Unsure of what else to do, Max follows her. They don't go far: across the hall and through a door Courtney opens without breaking stride.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" Courtney yells, her voice loud enough to hurt Max's recovering ears. "WHAT THE ACTUAL _F_ , TAYLOR?"

Max steps through the door and stops, blinking as she tries to understand what she's seeing. Even through the smoke and clouds of plaster dust, Max can see that she's entered a huge space. It looks like someone took an apartment like Max's and decided to get rid of everything they thought was extraneous, like the interior walls. In place of the rooms and furniture, there's one open space that's been converted into some kind of workspace. On one side of the room, Max can see several tables laden with materials, sewing machines, and assorted tools. There are stacks of boxes in one corner, beside a row of cabinets. Clothing in various stages of completion are hanging from a half dozen dummies.

The other side of the room is a bomb site.

Or, Max realises as the smoke begins to dissipate, it's more of a bomb _testing_ site. Protective screens have been set up around the point where--judging by the thickness of the smoke spilling lazily into the rest of the room--the blast originated. The screens stretch from floor to ceiling and are made of a transparent material, but smoke and debris have rendered them opaque. There's a gap where two of the panels have been forced apart by the blast, and that's the source of the smoke.

"Taylor?" Courtney stands in the middle of the huge room, waving her hand in front of her face and glaring around her. " _Taylor_!"

"I'm here!" A tall young woman emerges from behind the bomb chamber, strands of long blonde hair poking out from what Max at first thinks is the hood of some kind of protective suit. As Taylor approaches them and the smoke thins out, Max realises that she is, in fact, wearing a Pikachu onesie. "Uh, so...the bomb went off?"

"Yes!" Courtney snaps, her face reddening. "We were aware of that, thank you! Why did it go off _now_?"

"Because..." Taylor chews her lip. "I accidentally, like, triggered it? When I was poking around?"

"Why were you _poking_ a _bomb_?" Max blurts, unable to resist asking what she feels is a reasonable question. "Why do you even _have_ a bomb?"

"Oh!" Taylor's green eyes widen as she looks at Max. She bites down harder on her lip, to the point where Max worries that she might draw blood. "Uh, who are you?"

"This is Max. Our new staff photographer. Max, meet Taylor. Taylor, meet someone who I’m beginning to like, if only because she hasn’t made anything _explode_ today!"

Max’s arm spasms in something that might be taken as a wave. "Hi?"

"Hey! Yeah, the Polaroid lady!" Taylor smiles, though the expression looks a little strained. "Um, nice to meet you! Sorry about, like, the bomb. Welcome to the team!"

"That's okay about the, uh..." Max pauses. "Actually _is_ it okay? Are _you_ okay?"

"Totally!" Taylor waves a hand dismissively. "I _barely_ felt the blast wave! And, like, don't even worry about us having a bomb! It's part of an investigation. There's this person who's been supplying explosives to, uh, everybody it feels like? The thing is, once they're armed, they always explode. But we finally got one that hadn't blown up, so I was trying to, like, see what I could learn."

Courtney folds her arms. The glare she directs at Taylor gives off enough excess heat to make Max back away a step. "And what _did_ you learn?"

"Um..." Taylor shuffles her feet. "So far? Not to, like, poke bombs again?"

"Jesus," Courtney mutters, massaging her temples. "Why didn't you wait for Victoria?"

Taylor flicks a glance at Max, chewing her lip. Finally, she mutters, "She's been so stressed..."

"Yes, getting yourself hurt or killed would help reduce all of our stress! Good thinking!"

"Hey! I'm not an idiot, Courtney!" Taylor glares at the shorter woman from under her Pikachu hood. It isn’t very effective. "I took, like, serious precautions!"

Max carefully says nothing, trying not to look at either Taylor or the crack in the screens.

"Taylor..." Courtney lets out a long, slow sigh. "Do you know how many forms I'd have to fill out if you'd died? Don't die on the premises, please. I don't need the extra work."

"Aww!" Taylor smiles, her face lighting up. She shuffles over to Courtney, wrapping her up in a quick hug. "You were really worried about me!" Taylor lets Courtney escape the hug, then offers Max a happy smile. "Courtney loves paperwork. She prefers forms to feelings, so when she says she doesn't want to do extra, it means she cares a whole--"

"Moving on," Courtney says briskly, but with the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks. "You need to clear this mess up. And since you didn't install the soundproofing I got delivered to you yesterday, _I_ will be too busy dealing with the building security staff to help you."

"Oh." Taylor's smile dies. "Right. But, I mean, was it really _that_ loud?"

"Yes, Taylor," a new voice says. "Since I've just had a decidedly shitty conversation with the building manager, it was, apparently, _extremely_ fucking loud!" Max jumps, startled to discover they've been joined by Paramount. She's wearing some kind of form-fitting white jumpsuit, and a scowl. "Which, spoiler warning, is _always_ what happens when you set off _fucking_ explosives! What the _fuck_ were you _thinking_?"

There's a moment of silence. Taylor bites her lip and looks down at her feet. Courtney stands rigid, her expression tight. Paramount glares at them both, her hands on her hips.

Max wants to retreat. She wants to slip quietly away and hide under her new bed. But instead she finds herself staring at Paramount and blurting, "You _swear_?"

There's another moment of silence. Paramount shifts her glare to Max. She opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it again. She glances at the others. Almost simultaneously, Courtney, Taylor and Paramount burst out laughing.

"Oh, she swears like a, like, _embittered_ sailor," Taylor gasps, between giggles. “You have no idea!”

"Hey! I do not!" Paramount shoots another look at her, but there's no real heat in it. "Maybe _sometimes_ I need to vent a little, but--"

"Only whenever you're in a bad mood," Courtney says, smirking. "Which has been almoooost...always? For the last year and change?"

"Oh, fuck you, bitch! I'm not that fucking bad!" Paramount shakes her head, but her scowl is gone. She's even smiling a little, the reserved expression making it all the more obvious to Max that Paramount's dazzling smile only exists for the public. It also makes Max aware that the weight in her hand is the camera bag she’s still clutching. "Everyone's okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine," Taylor says softly. She puts her hand on Paramount's shoulder. "I'll clean this up. And I'll see what I can do with, like, the residue. I think I can maybe get somewhere with it."

It's their turn to jump, when Max's Polaroid flashes. She's pretty sure the shot will work out, though. It’ll have a nice, natural composition: Courtney in the background, traces of laughter still on her face. In the foreground, Taylor comforting Paramount, a hint of vulnerability showing under the smile on Paramount's face.

Max thinks it’s going to be a great picture. But when she lowers her camera, she thinks she might have been better off hiding under the bed after all, given the way the other three are staring at her.

"Uh..." Max smiles sheepishly. "Hi! Max Caulfield. Your new staff photographer? I know you were having a moment, but I, uh, take pictures? Of moments? It’s sort of my job?"

“Oh. Great. She does sass now.” Courtney snorts. She raises an eyebrow at Paramount. "This...is going to be an adjustment. Don't you think?"

"Then we'll adjust." Paramount's tone is even, but her expression hardens. Courtney simply nods, breaking eye contact. Paramount glances at Max. “I hired Max for her eye and her instincts, after all.”

Max ducks her head, but she doubts it’s enough to hide her smile.

"Oh, shit." Taylor bites her lip, looking down at herself. "Could you not take pictures when I'm wearing, like, a onesie and my hair is a disaster?"

"It's...not really for the public," Max mumbles, looking down at the developing picture in her hand. She instinctively passes it to Taylor. "I mean, unless you want it to be, of course. But this one's for you guys. To break the ice, I guess? And, uh, Taylor...Pikachu is always a solid choice, so it's cool!"

"It's _embarrassing_ ," Courtney mutters. "We're supposed to be professionals!"

"I am a professional! This is comfy _and_ practical bomb-poking, uh _studying_ attire." Taylor rolls her eyes at Courtney, then smiles at Max. "Clearly, Max gets it. It'll be nice, having someone less uptight around here. So, like, welcome aboard, Max!"

Things almost don't feel awkward, in spite of the smoke still wisping out of the damaged bomb chamber. And then Paramount moves in front of Max, putting herself between Max and Taylor. She stands just a few inches away, considering Max from the vantage afforded by the three or four inches of height she has on Max. Her intense green eyes roam over Max's face, until she finally locks gazes with Max. The corner of Paramount's mouth turns up.

Max has been feeling unmoored since last night, and Paramount's scrutiny only adds to her confusion. Or maybe Max has been feeling disconnected from her life since the phone call with her dad. Or maybe...maybe she's been drifting her entire life, and now that she's collided with Paramount, she needs to figure out if she's found a harbour or struck a hidden rock that's going to make her sink. It's impossible to say which it is with Paramount staring--and _smirking_ \--at her, so Max lowers her eyes. 

But that means that she finds herself staring at Paramount's super suit. Which is so moulded to her that it means that Max is basically staring at Paramount's body. A body that is all slim curves and toned muscles. Max is suddenly reminded of the fact that staring is rude, at about the same time that she remembers that she hasn't dated anyone in nearly two years. And, Max’s subconscious is suddenly keen to remind her, Max is really quite incredibly, acutely, _urgently_ bisexual.

Max can feel her face heating up, so she yanks her gaze away from Paramount entirely. She finds Courtney watching her, a slight frown on her face. Max shuffles her feet so she can stare at her shoes while her face cools, without taking in any other, more dangerous sights in her immediate vicinity.

Mercifully, Paramount doesn't seem to notice Max's moment of discomfort. "Taylor, get this dealt with. And for fuck's sake, get changed! Courtney, I'll be taking my phone off the grid. If something urgent comes up, use the Trunk Line. Otherwise, I'm taking the afternoon off. Max...we'll need to upgrade your wardrobe, because this thrift store hipster shit won't do. But it's kinda perfect for what we're doing today, so dump your cameras and your phone then meet me upstairs. You're coming with me today, Max. We have things to do and people to see."

Without another word, she sweeps out of the room. Max tries to shake off her own weird reaction to Paramount a minute ago. She shares a look with Taylor, who gives her an encouraging smile, ducks her head to avoid Courtney's penetrating stare, then rushes after her new boss. 

Max hopes that spending a whole afternoon with a superhero who looks like a supermodel and swears like a trouper will be less stressful than the rest of the day has been.

Max's pessimism smugly assures her that it almost certainly won't be.

* * *

Going out as anything other than Paramount presents challenges to Victoria.

While Victoria is pretty sure she's never going to leave Taylor alone with anything more combustible than a box of safety matches ever again, she can't complain about the outfit Taylor put together for her: a baggy hoodie, distressed jeans one size too large, a cute but cheap belt, an Under Armour beanie, and battered Oakleys.

It doesn't make her invisible, but it does make her someone most people will glance at, if they look at all. She doesn't look anything like Paramount after she's changed, or even Victoria Chase. She's amused, when she checks her reflection in the mirror, to realise that she looks a tiny bit like Max. Only with better clothes, in spite of the fact that these are the shittiest things Victoria owns.

Victoria quickly texts Taylor, suggesting she make a point of working her magic on Max at the earliest opportunity. Then she seals her phone inside a small Faraday bag and tucks the bag into her hoodie pocket. She pockets a roll of cash, too. Thanks to Courtney’s efforts, Victoria has a couple of credit cards she can use that can’t be traced back to her. Not easily, anyway. But Victoria prefers to keep them for emergencies only, like ordering junk food and booze she isn’t supposed to have.

She shoulders the tote bag Courtney left for her, smirking again at its contents. A bottle of White Dog Whiskey, generally considered the worst in the world. Courtney has definitely come through again. Switchboard will fucking _shit_ when she gives it to him.

Victoria takes a moment to check her reflection and push down the worry that she might be pushing Max too hard, too fast. But...Taylor sent her a snap of the developed Polaroid Max just took. It’s so good it made Victoria dizzy with anger, which only confirms that she’s made a good choice with Max.

The only concern is making sure Max still thinks she’s made a good choice by the end of the day…

The girl herself is waiting for Victoria by the elevator, standing awkwardly with her hands jammed into her hoodie’s pockets. She looks even smaller, with her shoulders hunched. Victoria briefly amps her hearing, confirming that Max’s heart rate is elevated to an extent that has Victoria wondering if she’s about to pass out.

“You’re allowed to sit, you know,” Victoria says as she strides out of her bedroom. Max flinches, her heart speeding up, and Victoria has to suppress an eye roll. In as kind a voice as she can manage, Victoria says, “This is where I live, but it’s only my office that’s off limits. I’m the only one with biometric access, so you can’t even go in there by accident.”

“Oh.” Max attempts to straighten out of her slouch. It’s not entirely successful, but at least it’s an attempt. “Uh, okay. Thanks. I just...don’t want to make any assumptions.”

“Like you did about me swearing?” Max winces, her face reddening. But, Victoria is interested to note, her heart rate slows again. “I don’t wear a mask, but I still have a public face. Hence the NDAs.”

“Right.” Max’s brow furrows. “About that, Courtney said something about a curse? Like, a magic curse…?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Victoria says dismissively.

“Oh?” Her face brightens.

“Not unless you were planning on breaking the NDA.”

“Oh.” Her face falls.

Victoria can’t help a smirk. Max’s face is delightfully expressive, and she’s apparently quite easy to fuck with. “Now, on the agenda for today is--” Victoria has to cut off the flow from her sensory reservoir when Max’s stomach rumbles. “...lunch. Lunch will be the first order of business.”

Max’s face gets even redder. She lowers her eyes. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that…”

“I have good ears. And I’m hungry, too,” Victoria says, realising that it’s true. “So...you’re going to take me to lunch.”

Max’s head snaps up, her eyes widening. Victoria doesn’t need to tap her reservoirs to know that Max’s heart just sped up again. “Uh, I am?”

“It’ll be my treat, but since I’m going incognito, I can hardly go to any of the places I’d usually go. So, Max. Take me somewhere.”

“Okay. I know a place on--”

Victoria holds up a hand. “To be clear, take me somewhere where I don’t have to speak pirate to understand the fucking menu. Yes?”

It’s a very pleasant surprise when Max’s eyes narrow and her lips quirk. “Aye, cap’n! That I can do!”

“Max…”

“Don’t worry, I had somewhere else in mind, Para...uh, sorry, I mean--”

“Max? This is an order from your employer: do not call me _fucking_ Paramount again.” It’s a very unpleasant surprise how much bitterness Victoria puts into her voice. Max’s whole body tenses, though she doesn’t look away. “Victoria is fine.”

“O-Okay.” Max nods. “Victoria it is. But, uh…”

Victoria doesn’t trust her voice, so she simply raises an eyebrow.

Max suddenly grins. “For giving me shit about the pirate bar, I’m not telling you where we’re going. And there’s no backing out when we get there. Yes?”

“Is that how you’re going to speak to your boss?” Victoria snorts out a laugh. “Fine! I’m trusting you here, Max!”

“Well…” Max’s grin fades. Her gaze stays locked on Victoria’s. Softly, she says, “In that case, I won’t let you down. Victoria.”

It’s Victoria who has to break eye contact. She gestures for Max to precede her to the elevator, hoping Max can’t read anything on her face before Victoria can hide it behind one of the expressions she’s practiced for her public.

As they ride down together in silence, Victoria tries not to dwell on the fact that Max is the one who will be let down if she puts too much trust in Victoria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, hey, look! The lovely [RiotWrrrld](https://riotwrrrld.tumblr.com) made fan art of Taylor!
> 
> <https://riotwrrrld.tumblr.com/post/186322250702/fan-art-taylor-christensen-in-icon-by>  
> 
> 
> This chapter did not want to come together...but I think I got somewhere in the end. While I know a few of you were curious about Switchboard, that will have to wait because, like, we hadn't seen Taylor in a while and I know some of you must have been getting frantic. Well, maybe one of you, anyway...
> 
> I'm going to do my best to get back on schedule with this one. Writing has just been tricky to focus on the last month or so. But you know what helps? Comments! Please do leave one if you have any thoughts or criticisms or anything you'd like to share!
> 
> Thanks again, see you hopefully a week on Wednesday, but definitely not more than two weeks from now!


	7. Chapter 7

Victoria keeps her senses at their metaphorical factory settings for the rest of the elevator ride. It's not down to a lack of curiosity about Max--Victoria is having a hard time keeping her mouth shut and limiting herself to watching Max in the blurry reflection of a steel panel. It's more that, Max isn't someone Victoria is trying to pick up in a club, or impress in a business meeting. She isn't an enemy. It seems unfair to listen for the changes in her heartbeat, watch the flow of blood through her face, the way her eyes move, or how much her pupils shrink or dilate, merely for the purpose of a conversation.

It's something she discussed with Taylor. Or, well, something Taylor nagged her about at great length. If Victoria truly wants to bring someone new onto the team, she needs to build a natural rapport, not subject Max to a continual lie detector test. Especially when Max won't even know it's happening. So that means Victoria will have to make conversation like a normal person. And, since they're stuck in an elevator, conversation now means _small talk_. Victoria would rather test her durability by plunging her hand into lava than talk about the fucking weather, or any of the other meaningless shit people talk about when they have nothing to say.

Max seems content to sink into the silence, disappearing into her head so completely Victoria might as well be alone. Abruptly, _absurdly_ , Victoria feels lonely. She can't think of any good way to get Max's attention, though, and she resents herself for being needy enough to want it. 

The elevator doors open after a minute that Victoria would gladly trade a year of her life not to live through again.

Max stirs, blinking when she realises they aren't in the lobby, but in the parking garage under the building. "Oh. Are we driving? I thought you had a, uh, chauffeur or something."

"We use a car service for anything public." Victoria sets off at a quick pace, her sneakers soundless on the concrete. Max hurries after her, her shoes scraping and slapping occasionally. She's not the most coordinated of people, then. Which is oddly endearing, considering her camera skills. "For times like this, when I want some privacy, we have to get a little more creative."

Victoria stops beside a green panel van. On the side is painted a logo: a spray of almost offensively bright flowers, surrounding the words 'Petal To The Metal To Your Door.'

"You...stole a van?"

"No! Why would you...?" Victoria glares at Max, who looks up at her innocently. There's a hint of a smile on her lips, though, and a twinkle in her deep blue eyes. Victoria relaxes. "Oh, haha. No, we bought a couple of small businesses a year ago, when the...my, ah, brand really took off. Businesses that make deliveries. You see, no one pays much attention to delivery vans. Or their drivers. When I want to get around without attracting attention, we schedule a delivery here, have the driver drop off the van, then take it to the appropriate depot. We have a few other, nondescript vehicles we can use there. We trade the van for one of those, and then we go wherever we want. It's a hassle, but it works. "

"That's...clever. But kinda sad you have to do that. Can't you just...go out?"

"I'm famous, Max. And I'm a superhero. Paparazzi are hardly the worst of my problems. So, no. I can't."

"I...yeah. Of course." Max hangs her head. "That sucks. Sorry."

Victoria hesitates. She's unsure how to respond because she has no idea why Max is apologising. Finally, she shrugs and opens the driver's side door. "Whatever. Let's go."

Victoria gets into the driver's seat. The keys are in the ignition, and she starts the engine while Max scrambles into the passenger seat and puts on her seatbelt.

"So, uh, people don't notice delivery vans? Even with names like Petal to the Metal?"

Victoria grimaces. "We let Taylor rename the florist when we took it over. She's a fucking nightmare when it comes to puns."

"You...don't like puns?" Max clutches at her heart. "That's punbelievable. Whoever made you hate wordplay deserves to be punished. We have to take this unfortunate situation, and make it _pun_ -fortunate for you! I say we start small so it's not too punful, but--"

"Jesus, stop!" Victoria groans. "If you don't shut up, I'll have to--"

"Send me to the pungeon?"

"Don't think I won't fire you on your first fucking morning, Max."

Max stops talking. She looks away, but not before Victoria catches the smug grin she's wearing.

Victoria rolls her eyes as she puts the van into gear, but she can't suppress a smile of her own.

* * *

Victoria doesn't usually drive vans, so she's more focused on the road than on max during their trip to the depot. Max seems content to say nothing. It's a more restful silence than earlier, if because Victoria has something to focus on that isn't her or her new...employee? Team member?

_Friend?_

That's a strange thought. The parts of Paramount that belong to Victoria belong just as much to Taylor and Courtney. They've both been there for her, from the beginning. They were friends before they became her assistants. If they aren't quite friends anymore, that's because they've become something more.

Obviously, Max isn't going to earn that bond overnight. But it's galling to discover that, for all the fretting she's been doing over whether or not Max would sign up, Victoria has very little idea what to do with Max now that she has her. Oh, she has some ideas about how to put Max to work. She knows that she _wants_ to figure Max out, and to help her realise the full potential of her talent, but Victoria hasn't figured out how to begin doing any of it.

It's embarrassing. And being embarrassed pisses her off.

So when they trade the delivery van for a dirty hybrid sedan, Victoria tosses Max the keys. "Your license is current, right? I'm not driving you around all fucking day."

Max almost fumbles the catch. She gapes at Victoria, her eyes wide and searching. "I, uh...yeah? I haven't driven in a while, though."

"Time you got some practice, then," Victoria says, her tone airy in spite of the lead in her stomach.

She gets into the car, Max meekly following her.

 _This_ time the silence is ugly with tension. Max is a nervous driver, or maybe she's just nervous because Victoria has snapped at her twice already this morning. Victoria spends the rest of the journey trying to work out a way to ease the tension out of the air, but she feels shitty enough about making Max drive in LA traffic. She doesn't want to distract Max while she's concentrating.

That's what she tells herself, knowing that it's bullshit. Each passing minute takes them closer to their destination, and further from any opportunity to apologise. Victoria is bad at apologies. She has always hated making them, so here she is, grateful for even a feeble excuse not to have to.

Max navigates the streets without anything worse than a few people honking their horns when Max's caution slows other drivers down by a second or two. Victoria cheers herself up by flipping each and every one of them off, revelling in the anonymity afforded her by her hood and shades. It doesn't hurt that Max gasps in shock the first time Victoria does it, but laughs softly each time afterwards. By the time Max has found a multi-storey to park in, the mood in the car is lighter.

Max kills the engine, then sits for a moment, resting one hand on the wheel and the other in her lap. She chews her lip as she thinks, and Victoria is oddly content to watch her. She's still trying to figure out what to say when Max turns her head, focusing on Victoria with her large and very blue eyes.

"You didn't pick the name, did you?"

It takes a second or two to work out what Max means. When she does, Victoria is struck all over again by the fact that Max is a fucking iceberg of a person. So much of her is hidden in the depths Victoria can glimpse in those fucking eyes. Victoria shifts in her seat, stopping when the seatbelt constricts her. She feels clumsy, and she hates that feeling. But she's been enough of an asshole to Max already today, so she locks it down.

It helps to remember that Max is under an NDA. Although acknowledging that it helps makes Victoria feel like even more of an asshole.

"No." She holds in a sigh, fearing it might come out as a growl. "Paramount wasn't my choice. It was part of my...rebranding, after my brief career as a vigilante. My father hired a marketing firm, and they ran a list of names past a series of focus groups. Paramount won."

"Huh." The corner of Max's mouth twitches. "I did think it was, uh, kinda..."

"Pretentious and self-aggrandising?"

"I was thinking douchey, but...yeah, kinda?" Max smiles. It's a fragile smile, one that doesn't hide the worry behind it. She clearly doesn't want to get snapped at again. Maybe she even thinks Victoria really will fire her. But she keeps going anyway, her voice low and warm. "It makes sense you'd hate it."

"I don't..." Victoria sighs. She takes off her Oakleys, folding the legs and hooking one of them on the neck of her hoodie. She unclips her seatbelt, settling into a more comfortable position as she faces Max. She tries on a smile, knowing it isn't her best. "Honestly? I really fucking do. Hate it, I mean. It's so dumb, and...yeah. Douchey."

Max nods, chewing her lip. "So, uh...why do you--"

"Because it works," Victoria says, as calmly as she can manage, "I don't like all the focus groups, and marketing synergies, and consultants trying to micromanage me, but I wouldn't be as successful as I am without them. And it's not like the villains or criminals give a shit what my name is. It only matters what I can do, and it's..." Victoria swallows, because her mouth is dry and because she's getting close to a truth she'd rather Max didn't discover, NDA or no. "It's easier to be a hero with the support systems I have in place. Without them, I wouldn't be as effective. I wouldn't be..."

"Paramount." Max smiles nervously. "You know...I think I'm only just now realising how much I _don't_ know about you. And your world. I've...made a lot of assumptions. I'll need to work on that."

"Don't worry, you'll learn." Victoria snorts, trying to ignore the soothing effect Max's quiet voice and soft eyes are having on her. "You won't thank me for it, but you'll learn all about the hero world, Max."

"Maybe it won't be so bad. And I am grateful, for the opportunity. Seriously. I..." Max purses her lips, her eyes dipping for a moment. When she looks up, her expression is hard to read. "Can I ask you one more question? While it's just us? It's maybe a little personal." 

"Sure," she says, hoping Max doesn't notice how tight her voice is. "Shoot."

Looking Victoria directly in the eye, Max solemnly asks, "Do you like burgers?"

"Do I...?" Victoria blinks. "You...are fucking with me."

"Nuh-uh." Max smiles. "It's a very serious question. Our whole lunch is at stake."

"I'm...on a very specific food plan." 

"You are?" Max raises her eyebrows. Her eyes flicker down, across Victoria's body and quickly back up, not quite managing to meet Victoria's eyes this time. "Uh, but you get cheat days, right?"

"Well..." Victoria seesaws her hand. "Today isn't really--"

"And yet, I seem to recall you giving me choice of lunch. Without restrictions. Or take backsies." Max grins. "Did I mention these are _amazing_ burgers? Even the veggie burgers are great. Are you vegetarian, or...?"

"I'm omnivorous. But, excuse me, what?" Victoria raises a hand. "'Take backsies?' You still say that? As an adult?"

"Uh..." Max's grin fades. "Should I not? Is that an order, too?"

"No, you shouldn't." Victoria rolls her eyes. "Not because it's an order, but because you should have some fucking self-respect."

To Victoria's relief, Max chuckles. 

"I'll work on that," she murmurs. She summons another smile. "In the meantime...burgers?"

"Fuck it. Why not?"

* * *

Victoria follows Max to her mystery lunch spot, which turns out to be a retro 50's place called The Bygone Diner. The decor aims for vintage but, in missing that target, has landed a fucking bullseye on kitsch. It's all neon and vinyl, everything too bright and too polished, including the smiles on the faces of the staff and the retro-ugly yellow uniforms they're wearing.

There's an ancient jukebox in one corner, some ancient crooner droning on about how magical everyday things can be when they're shared with someone special. The hiss of an actual LP sets Victoria's teeth on edge. The lyrics and vocal delivery make her want to throw up.

It is exactly the sort of place Victoria Chase would never allow herself to be seen in. Which does make it a good choice to lay low in, admittedly. But where Victoria can grudgingly acknowledge the tactical benefit of dining here, Max is drinking everything in with a dopey grin on her face.

"They do amazing milkshakes here, too," Max babbles happily as their server, Pam, seats them in a booth away from the window. "Oh, man! I haven't been here in ages! This is exciting!"

"It's a themed diner, Max." Victoria waits for Pam to go out of earshot. "It's about as appealing as chewing on a brick. Aesthetically, at least."

"Hey!" Max frowns for a moment, then shrugs. "I kinda like the retro look, but it's not for everybody, I know. And it is, uh, sanitised. Obviously. I wouldn't actually want to visit the past or bring it back, y'know? But we're here for the food, and the food is amazing. Trust me, Vi--" Max breaks off, frowning. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Uh, who are you right now?"

Victoria pauses, considering. It's a good question, something else she should have considered before setting out with Max. "Beth'll do."

"Beth?" If Max recognises part of Victoria's middle name, she doesn't show it. She cradles her jaw in her hand, her eyes intent. "Cool. So...who is Beth?"

It's the sort of small talk bullshit Victoria hates, only...it's different, too. She can make up whatever she likes, be whoever she likes, for the rest of their lunch. Victoria finds a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm an artist."

"Ooh, struggling artist! I can relate. What's your medium, Beth?"

"I'm a photographer." Victoria leans across the table, staring Max in the eye. "And who said I was _struggling_ , bitch?"

"Well, if you were, I'd pay for lunch." Victoria snorts, but it only makes Max smile. "So, you're a fellow shutterbug?"

"Mm. I trained at Blackwell Academy, as it happens, before I went to Yale. I like portraiture, for the structure and discipline of it. But I like to shoot candid, slice of life style, too. I'm not...struggling, but I'm not famous. Not yet. But I will be. My work is going to hang in galleries around the world one day."

"I'll bet. I'll look out for it, Beth." Max studies her, her smile fading. "That...you're serious, aren't you? That's not something you just pulled out of the air."

Victoria hesitates, then shrugs. "The best lies always have an element of truth to them, Max."

"You're a photographer. And you went to _Yale_? Shit. I mean, your Instagram has some pretty great shots, but I didn't think..." Max's eyes grow distant. Victoria decides to bend the rules a little, amplifying her hearing to confirm that Max's heart is racing in near panic. "Shit, you don't need me! God, you're way more qualified than me! What am I even--"

"Don't be ridiculous." Victoria waves her hand dismissively, catching Max's attention again. Quietly, Victoria says, " _Beth_ went to Yale. I graduated from Blackwell, into this life. I...don't have a college degree, Max. I haven't had time to get one. And I haven't taken a shot that wasn't on my phone in a couple of years. _You_ were the top of your class in UCLA. That's pretty fucking impressive."

"It's probably not going to be remembered as the greatest group of students to go through the program," Max says, smiling wryly. Her heart is slowing down again, so Victoria closes off the tap on her reservoir. "But thanks."

"Mm, well...that sounds like self-deprecating bullshit. Take the fucking compliment, Max. Just remember..." Victoria examines her fingernails. " _Beth_ was top of her class at _Yale_. So, for the rest of lunch, I'll have to be quite disdainful of your third rate school."

Max blinks, processing. After an agonising fraction of a second, she bursts out laughing. "Beth is both a snob _and_ a jerk."

"Excuse you?" Victoria narrows her eyes, but she makes sure Max can see her smile. "Beth is _irresistibly_ charming!"

"I...bet she is, yeah." Max chuckles. She glances at Victoria, then looks down at her menu, tucking some hair behind her ear. She reads for a second, then looks up, smiling shyly. "That must be why I'm buying her lunch."

"Uh...no, you're not." Is Max blushing? She ducks her head again, and Victoria has to fight not to tap her vision reservoir. "I told you, I'll get this."

"Oh, come on! Are you trying to tell me Beth is someone who turns down a free meal?"

"Well..."

"Exactly! You need to stay in character, right?"

Before Victoria can answer, Pam reappears, asking if they're ready to order.

"Yep!" Max grins at Victoria. "We'll take two cheese burgers with the works, and a side of sweet potato fries. I'll have a diet coke, and Beth here _needs_ a vanilla milkshake. Beth loves milkshakes, you see."

Victoria glares at Max, but there's no real heat in it. It's actually kind of nice, seeing Max's more playful side emerge. It's relaxing, even, sitting around and talking shit, pretending she's someone who gets to do things like this on a daily basis. Maybe she should be setting stricter boundaries with Max, establishing a foundation for their working relationship. But, given that they might not _have_ one if things go poorly with Switchboard, Victoria decides that she can worry about it tomorrow.

For now, she decides to admit to herself that she's having...fun. It's a sensation that she experiences so rarely, she should really make the most of it while she can.

So, before Pam has finished scribbling in her order pad, Victoria clears her throat and locks eyes with Max. "Yes, I do love milkshakes. So can you make that a large, please, Pam? After all, Max is paying!"

Max mouths the word 'jerk' at Victoria, but she's still grinning.

Somehow, in spite of being in Victoria's company for what amounts to a lot of very small talk, Max's grin is never far away throughout the rest of their meal.

* * *

Max is relieved when Victoria reclaims the driver's seat for the last stage of their journey. The part of it where they're going to do...whatever it is they're going to do. Work, presumably. Max still doesn't know what she's expected to do without her camera, but she doesn't want to risk souring Victoria's mood by asking.

It's...weird being on first name terms with freaking _Paramount_ already. It's weirder spending the best part of two hours just hanging out with her new boss like they're, well, _not_ employee and employer. Max doesn't imagine that every day is going to be like this, or even close to this, but as nerve-wracking as the day has been, lunch was...nice.

Paramount, no, _Victoria_ is somewhat...mercurial, but while Max would prefer to avoid her temper as much as possible, it's almost flattering to see that Victoria has taken off her public mask around Max. Or _one_ of her masks, at least. Max wonders how many of them Victoria wears. She always appears so friendly, if not exactly _approachable_ , in public. She has too much of an aura of invincibility, of _power_ , for that.

But that isn't who she is, not really. Or rather, that's only a part of who she is. Because even in the baggy clothes, even with her face partially obscured by her sunglasses, even when she's making jokes or grumpy remarks, Victoria has an undeniable presence. Even with Victoria's attention on the road, Max can feel her exerting a gravity-like force. She almost demands attention, just by existing. When she's actually _trying_ to draw the eye, though...

Max sort of wishes she had a camera with her. She's grateful, too, that she doesn't. It forces her to think about how she might try to shoot Victoria, as opposed to how she'll try to capture Paramount. It's daunting, and exciting, to wonder how many more masks she'll discover in the process.

Max wonders if she'll ever get anywhere near the real Victoria. She doubts that there will be many more days like this one. Victoria is taking time out because Max is new, after all. And Max is beginning to understand what Taylor and Courtney meant, about Victoria's stress. She's clearly under a lot more pressure than Max could ever endure. Her workload isn't going to get easier because of Max, or rather, if Max _can_ lighten Victoria's load, it won't be so Victoria can spend time with Max.

And that's fine. Of course it is. But...Max still sort of hopes she'll get more chances to hang out like this. It's been easier than she thought it would be. It's been _fun_. It's been...almost too much.

Max looks at Victoria, trying to be as subtle about it as she can. It's been a while since Max has been attracted to anyone. It's exactly the wrong time for Max to _start_ being attracted to anyone, too. While Max _might_ have been able to see herself maybe possibly someday developing the courage to ask out the woman she hung out with in the diner, that woman was Beth. The woman she's looking at now is Victoria Chase.

Paramount.

She's incredibly attractive, and not just physically, but she exists in another world, one Max will never truly be part of. Besides, she's also Max's boss. And Max has no intention of being that kind of cliché. So Max tells herself to let it go. She tells herself to get ready for what comes next today.

Whatever it is, it's going to be less fun, Max realises, as she watches Victoria's grip gradually tighten on the wheel. She watches tension subtly change the contours of Victoria's body as Victoria drives them into the hills, along a dirt road, to an electronic gate in a tall fence, in the middle of nowhere. Scrubby bushes and irregularly spaced trees obscure Max's view of whatever lies beyond the fence.

She waits, saying nothing, staring blankly ahead of her, the engine idling. Max looks aound, trying to spot a camera or an intercom. She doesn't see either, which doesn't mean that they aren't there, of course.

"Should I...uh, do we knock?"

Victoria looks at her. She's still wearing shades, but the corner of her mouth curls up. "No, Max. We don't knock."

"So we just...wait?"

The last word has barely left her lips when the gate opens with an arthritic groan.

Victoria smirks at Max. She drives through the gate, which closes sluggishly behind them, and on down a dirt road that Max suspects, if cleaned of the dirt, would leave very little road behind. It's a short, if unpleasantly bumpy ride, to a concrete driveway in front of a huge, dark, dilapidated house. Victoria parks behind a sleek red sports car. At first, Max wonders how it handles the drive to the gate without getting wrecked. Then she notices the broken windshield and realises that it might _be_ a wreck. 

Max glances nervously at Victoria. Victoria's mouth compresses into a tight line, but she doesn't say anything. She gets out of the car, her movements sharp, her body rigid. Max quickly unbuckles her seatbelt and joins Victoria on the weed-choked, cracked concrete. The house looks old, made of timber sometime in the first half of the last century, and painted black some time in the last decade. Neglect makes it look older still; the paint is peeling, the front door is warped in its frame, and the blinds are down behind mostly dirty windows, with the one exception being broken and boarded up.

It makes Max think of crack houses in bad police procedurals. 

"What...are we doing here, Victoria?" Max tucks her hair behind her ears, just to have something to do with the nervous energy surging through her body. "This place looks..."

"Worse than last time," Victoria mutters, her face inscrutable behind the wall of her shades. "Fuck. Wait here, Max."

"What? But--"

There's no mistaking the irritation that makes Victoria's lips tighten. "For fuck's sake, relax! Switchboard is a friend. You're safe. I just need to...check on him. Before your appointment."

"I...have an appointment?"

"You did the second he decided to open his gate. Look..." Victoria takes off her sunglasses and faces Max. "Switchboard is...he's had problems. But he's also the only person in the country who can do what he does. If he decides to take you on as a client..." Victoria pauses. "If you decide you don't want this, you'll still have a job with me. You'll get everything I promised. I'm not going to force you to do this, okay?"

"You know," Max starts, wincing when her voice cracks. She swallows, and tries again. "If you're trying to make me less nervous, it's really backfiring."

"Well. Shit." To Max's relief, Victoria laughs. It's just a single, soft breath of a sound, but it helps. "Max...I know you're nervous. I know you have questions. But there's a lot more to this life than contracts and NDAs. I told you you'd learn all about it, and here's your first major lesson. You can spend a year as an observer with a job, or you can become a member of my team." Victoria gestures at the house. "There are no guarantees, of course, about anything that happens in the next year, but this is where those paths diverge. This is where you decide what you want to get out of your time with me."

"I...don't understand. This is all so new! I don't...I still don't even know what I'm doing, Victoria!"

"That's life." She shrugs. "Deal with it, or go home and cry into your pillow. I'm going to talk to Switchboard. When I get back, it'll be your turn. Talk to him, think about what you want, and make a decision."

She goes back to the car, takes a tote bag from the back seat, and walks to the house. The front door opens to her touch, and she strides into the house without looking back.

Max doesn't have her phone. She hasn't had a watch since the Nintendo Game Watch she inherited from her dad. That had been a treasured possession of baby Max's, until she went to school in Seattle and began her long, doomed quest to be known as anything other than the weird loser girl. Max wishes she still had the watch, not only so that she could know exactly how long she spends fretting under the sun alone.

It feels like a very long time. At one point, Max thinks she hears raised voices, and the sound of splintering wood. Her heart speeds up, and she's tempted to rush into the house. And then she remembers that _Paramount_ is in there. If something crazy is happening, Victoria will handle it.

It's only after things have been quiet for a while that a treacherous part of Max's brain asks her what she'll do if Victoria is _causing_ something crazy to happen. It doesn't take much effort to push that thought aside. Victoria might be a flawed person--because _everyone_ is--but she's also a hero, someone who risks her life to help others. Someone who has _sacrificed_ her life, her college plans, her artistic ambitions, to help others.

True, she's become rich and famous off the back of that sacrifice, but that doesn't change anything in Max's eyes. She lets the certainty that Victoria is a good person well up from within her, from the deepest places in her mind, and wash away her doubt and her worry. It isn't always an easy thing, to trust her instincts, but in this instance, Max does, without reservation.

It doesn't make the time pass any quicker, but it does allow Max to breathe more easily. Until she remembers that she has an appointment to keep, a decision to make, and so many potential ways she could screw up waiting for her...

When Victoria does reappear, Max is careful not to look at her face. Not for long. Not when she sees, in spite of the shades she's put back on, tear tracks through Victoria's makeup.

Flatly, Victoria says, "He's waiting. Room at the end of the hall. Good luck."

"Ah..." Max swallows. Her instinct is to ask what's wrong, to offer comfort. Her _instincts_ tell her to leave Victoria alone. "Thanks. I'll see you in a bit?"

"Yeah." Victoria turns away.

Max bites her lip, staring at her. Then she nods, pointlessly, and goes into the house.

It was bad on the outside, but at least it didn't smell like stale beer that's been filtered through a sweaty sock. Max has to watch where she puts her feet. The floor is almost invisible beneath takeout food containers, letters, and discarded delivery packaging. 

The room at the end of the hall used to be some sort of office or study, judging by the bookshelves, the mahogany desk, and the filing cabinets. But what once might have been a space dedicated to organisation is now a chaotic pit. The filing cabinet drawers are open, and papers lie strewn around their bases. The desk is scraped, scored, and misaligned, one corner of it jammed into the wall, where it has punched a hole in the plaster. The top of the desk has been cleared of its furniture by someone sweeping their arms across it. An expensive stationery set lies on the floor, under a broken monitor.

The bookshelves have been denuded. Max makes her way carefully into the room, unwilling to step on a book.

She stops when a man's voice, thick and rasping, says, "You've got three minutes before I get bored. Maybe less. Convince me why I should hook you up."

Max turns, finding him sitting on the floor, his back against an overturned armchair, his legs splayed out in front of him. He takes a drink from a bottle of whiskey, wincing at the taste. He lowers the bottle, wiping his mouth, and frowns at Max.

"What?" He snarls, his knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

Max isn't quite sure how to answer that, even though she knows exactly _who_ she's looking at.

He's a Prescott. He's _Nathan_ Prescott. And he's supposed to be in jail, along with the rest of his supervillain family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks!
> 
> Oh, hey! I'm almost back on schedule! In fact, since Wednesdays aren't going to work for me as upload days going forward, every two weeks on Thursday will be the new schedule. We're back on track! Woohoo!
> 
> So, uh...any comments?


	8. Chapter 8

Max opens her mouth, but before panic allows her to blurt out something she'll regret, she takes a deep breath and closes it again.

Last night Max was wearing an eye patch and an inflatable parrot, pretending to be a pirate. Today she's meeting the closest thing to the colourful pirate captains of old: a Prescott. Of course, the Prescott family wore a veneer of respectability over their crimes for a few generations. So many of their crimes were of the respectable, financial variety, and so much of the money they made went into the pockets of the respectable citizens and politicians in Oregon, what did it matter that _some_ of their crimes included things like blackmail, smuggling and murder?

The beginning of the end for the Prescotts was the discovery of their genetic disposition towards superpowers. They had believed themselves invincible before the advent of the powered era, but part of their invincibility lay in their ability to keep their worst excesses invisible to the public. Superhuman abilities increased their ambitions and their arrogance. 

The Prescotts began to expand their influence and their operations, taking less care to hide their worst crimes. And it turned out that, in an age of growing superheroics, there were a lot of people who weren't willing to let things like blackmail, extortion, kidnapping and murder go.

That didn't mean that the Prescotts went easily. It took years to coordinate dozens of heroes and several different law enforcement agencies into a task force that had finally brought the Prescott empire down two years ago. Not without loss of life on both sides, and even then, the Prescott organisation had been broken but not wiped out. Thanks to the efforts of heroes like Neon Knight, Lady Piston and Golden Kitsune, though, the whole Prescott family had been captured.

At least, that's what Max had read in the papers.

And even though heroes as young as Golden Kitsune had been involved in the bust, Paramount hadn't been.

At least, that's what Max had read in the papers...

But here Max is with Nathan Prescott, the youngest member of the family, and Paramount brought Max here. And maybe it's more hope than a logical deduction, but Max doesn't think Victoria is doing something illegal with Nathan. NDA or no, Victoria surely can't expect Max to do something illegal here.

Which means that Max should try to stay calm, and _think_. And work out what to say quickly because the silence has been stretching out since Nathan asked her what she was looking at, and each second of it seems to fill the room with greater animosity.

Max swallows. She lowers herself to the floor, sitting and crossing her legs to buy herself more time. She wipes her sweaty hands on her jeans, hoping that she's being subtle about it. She knows she needs to say something, not just because she's afraid Nathan might throw his bottle at her if she doesn't, but because she's lost about a minute of the three Nathan said he'd give her. Which means she has maybe two left to figure out what's happening here, because if it's something she can live with, Max is going to go for it.

She wasn't conscious of it, but part of her made the decision the moment Victoria offered her a choice. It would be easier to remain an outsider, in a way. It would be easier for Max to hang back, to hide from moments like this one if she did. 

It would be easier, in the same way that staying in her bed later and later in the mornings has been easier than facing all the nothing that her days have been bringing her for months.

Max’s instinct is to shrink back from this moment. Her instincts tell her to lean into it. She doesn’t want to be an outsider, she wants to be a part of Victoria's team, she wants to get as close as she can to Paramount. To Victoria. Max wants to earn more than just her obscene pay cheque. She wants to earn...something she can't even define yet.

Which means that she can’t fuck this up by saying something stupid. So she takes another breath, and studies Nathan.

He glares back at her, but he doesn't say anything. He takes another gulp of whiskey, dribbling some onto his chin. His _stubbly_ chin. It’s been separated from a razor for a few days now, Max thinks. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruise purple against the sallow skin of his face. His shirt and pants are rumpled. He isn't wearing shoes, and he's wearing odd socks. Judging from the smell, he's been wearing them for about as long as he hasn't been shaving.

Max takes another breath, letting it out in a sigh as her heart slows down. Nathan Prescott doesn't look like a scary supervillain, he looks...miserable. And Victoria said he was a friend. And Nathan _was_ arrested, Max has seen pictures of him in custody...

Paramount works with law enforcement, doesn't she? She must have pretty close ties, since she joined the power registration campaign. And hadn't the papers speculated about a mole in the Prescott organisation, someone who gave the authorities the intelligence they needed to shut the Prescotts down? What if the mole hadn't been one of the hired help but one of the _family_?

Max chews her lip, her mind and heart racing. Slowly, she says, "I...guess I won't know what I'm looking at until..." Max swallows again, hoping that her voice won't crack and give away how nervous she is. "Until I see your ankles?"

He takes another drink, then lowers the bottle so abruptly Max thinks it's only the thickness of the carpet that prevents the glass from breaking. She still flinches when it thuds against the floor. Nathan wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, the rasp of his stubble like sandpaper across Max's eardrums. He stares at her, almost expressionless, for a long, long time. Then he grunts, tugs at his pants, and reveals the black bracelet locked around his right ankle.

Max suppresses a sigh of relief at the confirmation of her hunch: Nathan is under house arrest.

"Huh." He tilts his head, studying her. "That actually was kinda interesting. Panic, fear of confrontation, fear of doing something..." His face twists into an ugly sneer. "Oooh nooooo, _bad_! But then...you found a way to push it back. You thought things through. You were pretty fucking slow, but you got somewhere worthwhile. You know how many people ever do that?"

Max blinks. She opens her mouth to answer, but before she can, he interrupts her.

"That's right! Not very fucking many. It's depressing, having to listen to the mundane, boring, obnoxious, squirming, petty _shit_ that goes through most people's heads." He shows Max his teeth and takes another swig from his bottle. "Yeah, it'd drive anybody to drink, wouldn't it?"

Max blinks. She wipes her palms on her jeans again, not bothering to disguise the gesture because if she's understanding Nathan right now, then he must be--

"Of course I'm a fucking telepath!" He sniggers. "You're panicking again! Relax. I'm not as strong as The Singing Telepath. I can't read your deepest darkest secrets. I can't reach your subconscious unless you open a path to it for me. I can’t force you to do anything against your will. I _can_ see what's on the surface of your mind, and I can see the...shape of your thought processes. But it's not like I can read all the pathetic shit you only tell your diary. Not unless I can _trick_ those thoughts to the surface." 

His eyes light up and his grin becomes smug. "Like I just did. So you _do_ have a diary! What's the entry you most regret writing?"

Max narrows her eyes. Anger cuts through her confusion and her panic, bringing with it an image of Chloe and an idea. Max focuses on a single image in her head, letting her other thoughts get on with running around in circles, screaming and waving their arms.

"Shit!" To her surprise, Nathan bursts out laughing. He raises his free hand and extends his middle finger at Max, mirroring her thoughts perfectly. "You're kinda fun! So, are you and Vic fucking?"

" _What_?" Max shakes her head violently. "I work for her! As a photographer! I'm not...is she even…? I mean, we're not! And that isn't any of your--"

"Okay, got it. Boring." Nathan gulps down more whiskey. "Pity, too. She's more tightly wound than I've ever seen her. She could use some...release."

“Okay, so...I’m not even slightly comfortable with where this is going.” Max has no idea if he's responding to her words or her thoughts, and she doesn't want to look at the thoughts he's stirred up while she's in this house. "I don't understand what you're supposed to be offering me. Maybe you should explain that now. Or I’ll leave."

"You won't. You’re weirdly fucking invested in all this. That's an empty threat. That's _boring_."

"Okay, I guess you can't read past the surface after all. Bye."

Max pushes herself to her feet. Her legs are shaking, and even if he doesn't notice that, her mind is screaming so loud Nathan must be learning all kinds of things about her. Like exactly how much she doesn't want to walk away, not if it means sacrificing her chance to be on the inside of _something_. The closest Max has ever come was when she and Chloe were best friends with inside jokes and whole worlds they'd imagined together that no one else could ever understand.

It hits Max only then that she's never had anything like it since, and she's been _searching_ for it. Even with Chloe, Max is on the outside now. They're separated by years apart, by broken trust, by Chloe's new friends and _their_ inside jokes that Max can only observe and never share. 

It was probably a mistake, to imagine that she could ever truly become part of what Victoria, Courtney and Taylor have built, but Max suddenly discovers how _hungry_ she is for connection. And not just connection, but to become a part of something that matters, that she can contribute to, that she can make, in part, _hers_.

The thing is, though, Max might be pathetic in many ways, but she emerged from the misery of high school determined not to let anyone bully her again. Not if she had any power to prevent it. And right now, she has the power to walk away.

Max decides to use it.

She takes one last look at Nathan Prescott, surprised by the pang of sympathy she feels. Evil as it may have been, he was part of something bigger than himself once, and he lost it and all of his family, too. Or rather, he chose to tear it all down. She thinks that she can dimly perceive the way that would hurt. She thinks she can see how the reality of betraying family--even when they were doing evil things--might fester. She thinks about the argument she heard, and Victoria's tears, and wonders if, sometimes, loneliness is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

"Drink some water, okay? And take a shower. Get changed into some fresh clothes. Take care of yourself, Nathan."

She turns and walks away. She makes it to the door before he speaks.

"Switchboard. I don't go by...that name anymore. Call me Switchboard."

Max looks back. He's staring at her, with no trace of either hostility or amusement on his face. He just looks tired. When he sees her looking, he clumsily but deliberately screws the top back on the bottle of whiskey.

"Most people think they're smart, when really they're dumb," he says slowly. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You're kind of dumb, but your _thoughts_ are smart. It's interesting."

Max squints suspiciously at him. "Thanks...?"

"My pleasure." He chuckles. With a grunt of effort, he gets onto one knee. Using the fallen chair he was resting against for support, he pushes himself to his feet, swaying alarmingly. "I hated my parents my whole fucking life, even before I knew exactly how evil they fucking were. For a long time I didn't think I had a choice except to be like them. So I was. But then I got my powers, and it opened up possibilities for me. Which led me here!"

He staggers into the middle of the room, gesturing with both arms. "This was one of my parents' places. This one was bought by a legitimate part of the business, too. Not that that matters. Feds took fucking everything. But I get to live here, so isn't that fucking peachy? I'm not allowed to go anywhere, because there's still all sorts of legal shit to wade through and, you guessed it, I'm the star snitch!"

Max has no idea what to say, so she says nothing. She finds herself being pulled back into the room, though, partly through curiosity, partly through her fear that Nathan will fall and hurt himself.

" _Switchboard_ ," he snaps, his face flushing. He stumbles over to the desk, dumping himself on it with all the grace of a marionette that has had its strings cut. He grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles whitening as he levers himself upright. "I’m fucking...Switchboard, okay? I'm not a fucking Prescott anymore. I never fucking wanted to be one in the first fucking place!"

"Sorry," Max mumbles, deciding it's best not to point out that she didn't even _say_ anything. "Switchboard. Got it."

"It's a stupid fucking name, but it's what I do. I'm the one who can hook you up to the others. Vic'll pay me a shitload of money to it, too. Well, she’ll pay the feds and they’ll let me spend some of it from time to time. Isn’t that nice?”

Max clears her throat, and tries to clear her mind.

“Self-pitying bullshit? Yeah, sure. Probably. Fuck you anyway.” He stares at her, his jaw canted at a sullen angle, his lips pushed out into a pout. "Vic was my friend. In school. My best friend, after my sister...before either of us got powers. Didn't know that, did you? And she stayed my fucking friend, in spite of all the shit that happened to both of us. So, fuck it! If she wants you so bad, I'll hook you up."

"I don't..." Max hopes he can't pick anything out of the sweaty tangle of her thoughts. It would be deeply unfair, since there's so much going on in Max's head that even _she_ can't pull anything coherent out of it all. "I, uh, I don't know what you mean, I--"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm going to add you to the network. My network. It'll let you communicate with anyone I link you to, which means Vic and the other two in her justice posse."

"I'll...be telepathic?"

"No, dumbass!" Switchboard stares longingly at the bottle of whiskey he left on the floor. "I'll give you a code, something you can think about when you need to. I'll add it to the list I keep in the basement of my memory palace--"

Max tries to keep her expression neutral and let her mind swim in general, rather than specific confusion.

"Fuck me," Switchboard groans. "It's how I access my subconscious, okay? I set up autonomous mental processes so that I can create a telepathic conduit without…” He trails off, wiping his mouth with another rasp of stubble, studying Max with his red eyes. “When Switchboard go sleepy-time, magic mind talk still work! Yeah? I mean, do you think I stay awake 24/7 for shit like this? I've got better things to do!"

"Uh huh, got it!" Max says quickly. She tries not to think about the mountains of fast food containers and the whiskey lying around.

Switchboard's face reddens, but instead of yelling at her, he shrinks into himself. "Fuck off, you know what I mean. I’m not even allowed internet or a smartphone. The feds order my fucking dinner for me."

"Sorry. I didn’t..." Max rubs her brow. "I'm not used to having a conversation where the things I don't say are part of it."

"That's how _every_ conversation works, for fuck’s sake. Tone of voice, facial expressions, body language, pauses, abrupt changes of subject...on and on. I'm just better at picking up on the unsaid than most people." He looks down at his stained, wrinkled shirt, grimacing. "And I fucking _hear_ you, okay? I'll clean myself up a bit. It's been a shitty week, that's all. I don't want another fight about it."

Max has a million questions, and she suspects that Switchboard is picking up on dozens of them, but all she says is, "Okay. So, uh, all I need is this code, and that's it? I can...send people thought messages?"

"Not quite. I need to...nudge your mind first."

"Nudge...my mind?"

"I need to make your subconscious receptive to the telepathic frequencies Vic's crew communicate on. They call it the Trunk Line. It's for emergency use only, though.” He holds up a hand before Max even knows she’s opened her mouth. “Look...imagine you’re talking through cups on a string, yeah? You’ve got one cup, Vic’s got another. The sound travels when the string is under tension, because it vibrates. Right? Well, in this case, I'm the string. Too much chatter on the Trunk Line gives me a fucking migraine."

"A-and why do you need to mess around in my brain?"

“Because if I don’t…” He trails off, waving his hands vaguely. “If I don’t build a transceiver into your subconscious, I’d need to be in the room with you for you to hear anyone else. And neither of us want to spend much more time in the same room together.”

“But if I...I mean, you said you couldn’t read past the surface unless I let you, so, uh--”

“It’ll take about a minute to do this, and it won’t give me permanent access. And I won’t go looking for anything while I’m down there. It’s more fun pulling shit people don’t want to think about to the surface anyway.”

“I see.” Max winces when the image of a tinfoil hat leaps into her forebrain. Her brain has always been a place of odd connections, jokes and ideas she'd never share aloud. It's stressful, having her brain-to-mouth filter being bypassed like this. "I, uh, please ignore the tinfoil thing, I already know it's dumb!"

Switchboard sniggers, but it feels more like he's laughing with her this time. "Yeah, so...it’s not that dumb. A side benefit of me making you more receptive to a narrow band of telepathic frequencies? It means you'll be less receptive to all the others. It'll make you harder to read to other telepaths out there. "

"Oh." Max wonders, given the value Victoria places on her privacy, if that part is a side benefit or the primary reason Victoria wants her to do this. It would make sense, and it might explain what Victoria meant about being on the team for real. Max has no intention of betraying any secrets, but if she does this, she couldn't accidentally betray them to a telepath, either. Which would make it easier for Victoria to trust Max with her secrets. "O-okay. Okay, I'm in."

"Heh." Switchboard leers at her. "You're thinking about lingerie."

"I am not! Why would you think...? Oh, dog. Victoria's secrets. _Oh_!" Max feels her chest and her face get hot. "Well, I _wasn't_ thinking about...and I'm not going to and I definitely am not now! Can we do this, please?"

Switchboard giggles. "Close your eyes."

Max glares at him for a second, then obeys.

"Take a deep, relaxing breath." His voice gradually loses its abrasive edge as he speaks. "Imagine you're floating in a nice, warm pool on a summer's day. There's a soft breeze, and you're feeling relaxed. A little sleepy, though you're not going to sleep. You're just going to float...you're just going to let everything drift away."

Max frowns, trying to force down the suspicion that his attempts to soothe her awaken.

"Fuck me, I thought Vic was hard to work with. Fine! Cling on as tight as you can to all your fucked up shit, that'll work too!"

"Hey! I don't do that," Max protests weakly. She opens her eyes, just a little. "Do I?"

And then Max feels something like a pinch under her skin, under her skull, right at the threshold of her perception. She rubs the back of her head, shivering as goosebumps erupt across her skin. "What was that?"

"Insecure, paranoid, overly curious, guilty..." He shrugs. "That's your happy place, I guess."

"Is not! Wait...uh, is it done? Already?"

"Yeah." Switchboard rubs his eyes, wincing. "The first part. Now we just need to work out the signals you'll send out when you want to contact one or more of the others."

"Oh. What about you?"

"What about me?"

Max shrugs. "Can I contact you? If, uh, I need telepathic tech support, or something?"

"No." He groans. "Fuck, fine! Direst. Fucking. Emergencies. Only. I've had enough of your thoughts in my head."

"O- okay. Um, so...now what?"

"Now we build thought signals for you, based around your perceptions of the people you're going to contact. This sort of thing takes a personal touch." He smirks. "So close your eyes, and think about...hmm, let's start with Vic, shall we?"

Max's shoulders hunch. She takes a moment to banish the idea of lingerie from her brain as best she can, then closes her eyes. She thinks about Victoria, and her mind fills with a flood of images, of Paramount, of Beth, of Victoria Chase. Her mind fills with questions, too, but, already and undeniably, Max feels fondness, Max feels warmth.

"That's good," Switchboard says softly. "Yeah, we can work with that."

* * *

The only good thing to come of Victoria's decision to bring Max is here is that she was able to bum a cigarette off of Switchboard. Of course, Victoria didn't bring a lighter with her, so it's only the feel of it in her hand that gives her any comfort.

She leans against the hybrid, juggling the cigarette from hand to hand, fighting the temptation to tap a reservoir and enhance her hearing. Max has been gone long enough for Victoria to begin to fret, even though she knows that Switchboard giving her this much time is a positive sign. Either that, or he’s passed out and Max is trying to wake him up.

Victoria shakes her head. She starts walking, taking a tour of the outside of the house at a brisk pace. She looks for any other positive signs there might be, but she finds none. All she finds are signs of neglect everywhere. More weeds, more peeling paint, more warped, splitting wood.

Victoria can’t imagine this house ever being anything other than ugly, but she doesn’t remember it looking this bleak. It’s only been eighteen months since Switchboard was moved here. How much has the house declined in eighteen months? It must have been in bad shape back then, so why didn’t Victoria notice?

It makes her feel guilty. It makes her feel _useless_.

She had thought it was a good thing, when Switchboard was allowed to move here. It’s close enough to the city that Victoria could be here in minutes if any remnants of the Prescott empire ever got wind of Nathan Prescott’s betrayal and came looking for him. There are other security measures in place, of course, and other watchers over Switchboard, but...he was supposed to tell Victoria when he needed help.

She had thought he’d understood that meant help with _anything_. Either he hadn’t, or he’d decided that what he was going through was something that Victoria couldn’t help him with. It doesn’t say good things about what’s left of their friendship, whichever it is.

Victoria regrets bringing the bottle of White Dog. It doesn’t seem funny now. She regrets bringing Max here. Maybe Courtney was right, maybe she’s moving too quickly. Maybe all she’s done is push both Max and Switchboard away. Maybe if Victoria wasn’t so obsessed with her own fucking problems, she’d--

The top of her spine tingles. She becomes aware of a _presence_ , in the back of her mind. It takes only a moment to align her thoughts, and then she can hear...Max.

‘ _Hello? Uh, is this thing on?_ ’

Victoria snorts. ‘ _Scintillating, Max. That’s how you approach your first telepathic transmission?_ ’

‘ _Wowser! I can hear you in my head!_ ’

Victoria straightens her spine, a smile tugging at her lips. ‘ _Welcome to the Trunk Line, Max._ ’

Switchboard cuts in. ‘ _Yeah, great. I can feel the fucking migraine starting already. Vic can explain more about this shit to you with mouth words. So now you can both get out of my brain and go away. Pretty please?_ ’

‘ _Thank you._ ’ Victoria sends to him. ‘ _I’ll come see you soon._ ’

A moment passes, then he answers. ‘ _Sure. Bring better whiskey, though, asshole. You can bring Max, too. If you want._ ’

He cuts the transmission, but Victoria can tell he’s in a better mood than when she walked out of the house.

She finds herself grinning as she walks back to the car to meet Max. “Wowser? What the fuck, who says that? No, who _thinks_ that?”

Victoria laughs and tucks her cigarette into her pocket. It looks like good things came out of this visit, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I...had fun writing Nathan Prescott? That's a sentence I didn't expect to type, but there we go!
> 
> I'll probably have to work on telepathy formatting, but...let's keep it simple for now. Next time! More Max and Vic hanging out! This very long day might even come to an end! Who knows, maybe some Taylor!?! 
> 
> At this point, you likely know the drill, but I'll do the bit anyway: please do leave a comment, and lemme know what you think!


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